Kay David: Not Without The Truth

“I’ll call you in two days.” He made the promise abruptly then hung up.

Later that morning, his housekeeper, who also served as a nurse at the clinic, came to his study. Zue was Quechuan and eighty. She worked hard but her grandson, Beli, who also helped around the compound, did just the opposite. Knowing Armando would pay him regardless, he put out as little effort as possible.

“There are people here,” she sniffed. “From Qunico. I told them the clinic was closed but they won’t go away. They’re farmers.”

Armando had learned a long time ago not to point out what he thought were the discrepancies in Zue’s complicated class hierarchy. “Send them in,” he said.

Under Zue’s watchful eyes, the two men shuffled inside. Wrapped in woven blankets, they were exhausted and filthy. Qunico was fifty miles east of Rojo and even if they had had a vehicle, there was nothing but a rough path between the two. They’d either walked or ridden mules. Armando studied them but they both seemed healthy.

The taller of two spoke haltingly. “Señor Doctor, we have a woman in our village. She is hurt and very sick. She needs your help. You are the only one who can save her.”

Armando stilled. Something inside told him he knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway. “The woman is a gringa, no? With blond hair and ojos azules?”

The men exchanged a startled look and Armando realized he’d just added to the rumors that swirled about him. They came to him for help, but most of the villagers were frightened of him—they thought he could read their minds, disappear at will and heal with a touch. He didn’t like the mystery they’d built up around him, but sometimes it proved useful, he had to admit.

“What’s wrong with her?” Armando asked.

Their explanation came out in a jumble of Spanish and Quechuan but even if one language had prevailed, it wouldn’t have mattered. They were too overwhelmed to get the tale told in any kind of order. Armando held his hand up after a few moments and halted the flow.

“Por favor, amigos, one thing at a time. Start at the beginning.”

The taller man, clearly the leader, paused and tried to organize his thoughts. Finally he shook his head in a gesture of defeat. “We don’t know the beginning, señor.”

Armando frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know where she came from or how she escaped, but Xuachoto had her in his arms for a very long time. We think maybe he wanted to claim her for a new bride, but Mariaita wouldn’t let him. He had to give her up.”

The locals followed a convoluted mixture of Catholicism and Inca myths that had evolved through the centuries, their leader, Manco, serving as both priest and mayor. Armando hadn’t bothered to study the intricacies of the system but some of his ignorance was not his own fault. When the clinic had opened and the locals had seen what Armando’s medicines could do, they’d begun to bypass the old man’s rites and gone directly to Armando’s clinic for healing. In return, Manco deliberately made things more difficult because he resented what he perceived to be Armando’s healing powers and was jealous of his abilities.

Armando knew enough to recognize the name of their water god, Xuachoto, though, and his jealous wife, Mariaita. A chill came over him despite the heat and he dreaded hearing the answer to his next question.

“Are you telling me the gringa was in the river when you found her?”

They nodded in unison, then the shorter man spoke reverently. “Xuachoto had her. Manco fought hard, but he couldn’t bring her back from the other side. We know you can do better.”

“She’s dead?” Armando asked in alarm.

“No, señor, she is not dead.” He sent an uneasy look to his companion then faced Armando again. “But she is not alive, either.”

WHEN SHE FIRST HEARD the voices, she thought she was dreaming, then she became more aware of her surroundings and realized her mistake.

“I can take care of her,” a man said. “Your assistance is not needed here. They should never have bothered you with this.”

She struggled to open her eyes, her lids weighed down by sleep and pain. The man who spoke was the one she’d seen come into her tent before. His voice reverberated with a frightening kind of fervor.

“I am confident that you are able to handle the situation, Manco.” The second man answered in the same language of the first—Spanish—but his voice was much kinder, its tones softened by a sophisticated accent and polished manner. “I mean no disrespect. I merely want to help.”

She fought against her stupor and forced her eyes to stay open so she could study the visitor. His eyes were two black stones, polished and bright, his skin a burnished brown, his hair straight and black. He had the right coloring but she didn’t think he was local. For one thing, he wore American jeans and a T-shirt. Her guess was based on his attitude rather than what he had on, however. He had an air of authority about him, a self-confidence that told her he wasn’t about to give in to the man who stood before him. Her eyes shut again.

“I brought her back from the dead.” The tall man’s voice penetrated her fog but just barely. “If not for me, she would be in the ground at this very moment. Her family would be crying and lighting candles.”

“That may be true,” the stranger replied politely. “But you can’t talk to her and I can.”

“I speak the language of healing. English isn’t necessary.”

A paused filled the hut. As it grew, she beat her lethargy and turned to look at them again. The two men stared at each other, their faces filled with tension, and as she watched, the American, which she guessed him to be, stepped even closer to the older man, their chests now almost touching. His voice was so low she could hardly make out what he said. The steady conviction behind it, however, was unmistakable.

“You’re a very busy man, Manco. You have the farm to run, the animals to oversee, your people to guide. I’m sure you could handle this problem, but you don’t need another person to look after.” He paused, his silky voice at once respectful but threatening. “The burden of the woman’s care would require too much of your valuable attention. Your village could suffer. Your men were thinking of you when they came and asked for my assistance.”

He was offering a way to save face, which was nice because the outcome of this argument was not in question. The American was going to get what he wanted, in any event. For some reason, she suspected that was not unusual.

She didn’t know what Manco saw as he studied the man’s face but he must have read something in his expression that gave him pause. After a moment so long Lauren wasn’t sure it would end, he stepped back and held out his hand. “You are right, Doctor, as usual. Your wisdom far outweighs my own. I had not thought of the problem in those terms.”

The man in the T-shirt shook his head. “No one’s wisdom is greater than yours, Manco. The problem is your heart. It is too big. You try to help everyone.”

“You flatter me, but I will accept your praise.” The man smiled as he spoke but it wasn’t genuine. He wasn’t happy, yet there was nothing more that he could do. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to leave. “I’ll send someone to help carry her out.”

Before Manco had even left the hut, the doctor, if that’s what he was, was at the edge of her bed and lifting the mosquito netting. He appeared pleased by her open eyes.

“You’re awake. That is good. Very good. You didn’t seem to know I was here when I first arrived and examined you.”

He stuck out his hand and confirmed his title. “I’m Armando Torres. I’m going to take you to my clinic so I can see to your injuries. It’s not far from here. Do you think you can make it?”