Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

“You always look on the dark side,” Mauro said. “At least things can’t be any worse than before they turned up. They could have killed us ten times over if they’d wanted …”

That idea had never occurred to Elaine, even during the first moments of their encounter with the Indians. Now, when even Dietlev fully agreed with Mauro, pointing out how quickly they’d taken charge of the stretcher, Elaine was suddenly seized with retrospective fear that she could not overcome.

Ignoring their conversation, the Indians continued at a rapid pace, gathering herbs as they passed or collecting a handful of caterpillars, which they ate belching copiously and clicking their tongues.

No one had spoken for an hour when they entered a clearing where smoke was rising from a few huts made of palm leaves and branches. There were women, children and other Indians there who froze at the sight of the strangers, mouth open, their wad of tobacco almost falling out. They looked, unable to believe their eyes, at these unnatural animals the hunters had brought back from their expedition in the forest. A long murmuring was heard, then an imperious yap that made all eyes turn to one of the huts: the emaciated body of a very old man appeared in the entrance. A feathered maraca in one hand, his wad of tobacco stuck between his teeth and his lower lip, he walked in dignified fashion over to the stretcher, while the warriors made a circle around him. Once there, he pulled at Dietlev’s beard, as if to make sure it wasn’t false, and stepped back with clear signs of satisfaction: his scouts had not lied, God’s Messenger had come, as his father had told him, as the father of his father had always affirmed, as had been predicted since time immemorial. The prophecy was fulfilled at last. Why did the Messenger only have one leg? Why did he say incomprehensible things instead of using the language of the gods, those ageless words he sang to his son as his father had sung them to him all those years ago? It was something he was not yet allowed to understand. But it did have meaning.

The shaman shook his gourd filled with seeds, breathed on the Messenger to drive away evil spirits and spoke the words of fire, “ Deusine adjutori mintende ,” he said, pointing to his head, his stomach and his arms. “ dominad juvano mefestine! ”

“There’s an answer to our questions,” Elaine said as she recognized the imitation of the sign of the cross in his gestures. “The White Fathers have been this way—”

“It’s even better than that,” Mauro broke in excitedly. “ Deus in adjutorium meum intendo; Domine ad adjuvandum me festina: “O God, come to my assistance; O Lord make haste to help me.” Psalm 69, I repeated it often enough when I was an altar boy. This guy can speak Latin!”

When he heard Mauro, the shaman started turning round and round. His wad of tobacco kept poking out between his smiling lips like a parrot’s tongue.

“We are going to the river,” Dietlev said, gathering together what scraps of Latin he could remember. “The white men … The town!”

“ Gloria patri!” the shaman said, delighted to hear the sounds of the sacred language. “ Domine Qüyririche, Quiriri-cherub! ” He was enraptured. The father had come, the silent one, the royal falcon! Nothing now could stop them taking off for the Land-with-no-evil.

“ Quiriri quiriri! ” Petersen muttered, mimicking the old Indian. “All these grimaces are starting to get on my nerves. This macaque’s half crazy, he can’t understand a single word of what you’re saying. The way he’s going on, we’re in for something, I can tell you.”

It was at that moment that Elaine saw a second machete in the hands of one of the warriors. It could be a coincidence, but she was sure it was one of theirs, the one Yurupig had taken, to be precise. Petersen had followed her glance.

“ Amigo ,” he said through his teeth to Dietlev, “you’d do better to give me the gun. They’re not a nice lot, they’ve done in Yurupig …”

“No they haven’t,” Elaine said without thinking. “What proof do you have that—”

“It’s Yurupig’s,” Petersen said firmly. “There’s no getting around it, look at the way he’s holding the machete — it’s the first time that guy’s had one in his hand. I’m ready to bet he’s the one that bumped him off.”

“Stop being paranoid, will you!” Dietlev said, wiping his forehead. “You can see that they mean us no harm. You can have the gun, if you like, I threw the cartridge clip away en route.”

“You idiot, you fucking idiot! Tell me you didn’t do it.”

“I’m tired, Herman. I’m absolutely whacked, so you try and find some way of communicating with them. I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer.”

Elaine was close to tears. Every time things got a bit more complicated. Despite what Dietlev had said — admirable as it was, his courage was distressing to see — she was sure something had happened to Yurupig.

“He must know how to treat you,” Mauro said with no great conviction in his voice. “Look,” he went on to the shaman, “he’s ill. Do you understand?” And pointing to the stump of Dietlev’s leg, “He needs treatment. Water? Drink?” he said, making as if to put a cup to his lips.

The shaman’s eyes lit up. Me, Raypoty, distant grandson of Guyraypoty, I’m going to lead my people to the Land-of-eternal-youth. That had just been clearly confirmed: Qüyririche, the Messenger, the One-with-pubic-hair-on-his-face, would give them all the water of youth to drink. They had to give him a fitting welcome, honor him with a festival that would delight both him and his companions.

He gave a few orders to those around; two young warriors picked up the stretcher and the crowd parted to let them through toward the largest of the huts. Seeing Elaine follow her companions in, the men of the tribe let out a murmur of disapproval. Raypoty immediately silenced them; this woman was Nandeçy, the mother of the Creator, his mate, his daughter. An immortal spirit, like the other strangers. She could enter the men’s house without fear and contemplate herself the sacred objects she had handed down to the Apapoçuva people. They would dance to draw her favor down on them, to thank her for having come with Qüyririche, then they would all set off for the Land-with-no-evil …

The men’s house was simply a large hut where the males of the tribe gathered for various ritual occasions. There wasn’t much in it apart from a few mats, a hearth, gourds of different sizes, some small benches and several ornamental feather garments hanging from the central pillar. The walls of crudely woven palm leaves let in a dim light with moving shadows. The heat was stifling.

As soon as the Indians had left, Elaine attended to Dietlev. After having dissolved two aspirins and their last sulfonamide tablet in the bottom of a gourd, she forced the neck between his lips. She wanted to talk to him, reassure him, but nothing came to mind, such was her own need of comfort. Petersen watched her ministrations with a doubtful expression, every wrinkle in his face saying, “He’s a goner for sure.”

“I just can’t believe it,” Mauro said in a low voice. “What’re we going to do?”

Elaine made an effort to throw off the despondency that had gripped her. The words came mechanically from her lips: “We’ll wait a bit before leaving …” With a glance she indicated Dietlev, who had fallen asleep and was breathing with difficulty, his eyelids flickering, his jaw clenched. “We must manage to get them to understand what we want.”

“That could take some time,” Mauro said bleakly.

“You’ve got a better idea?” It had come out a bit sharply and Elaine immediately apologized. “Just ignore that, please. My head’s in a whirl …”