Stained River (5 page)

“Naru! I have seen something beyond understanding!  Have you seen Guardara?”

Not waiting for her answer, he dropped his bow and arrows and crossed the communal area leaving Naru perplexed, at the same time relieved they weren't under attack.

Guardara, the old shaman and village chief, sat outside his hut catching the occasional breeze of late afternoon. Wi
se in the ways of tribal leadership, he enjoyed the powers he possessed, for no one dared challenge him. He had ensured his place in the tribe long ago as a young man, a day he would never forget. Alone and not far from his village, he stumbled upon a party of rival warriors. They were intent on avenging the death of one of their members, blaming the Machi-te. The nine warriors advanced toward Guardara, but he singlehandedly killed two before he himself fell wounded. The leader admired the young man’s tenacity and bravery and was about to remove Guardara’s head to strengthen his own spirit. Before he could, several Machi-te appeared with weapons, and the raiders fled. It began a long and bloody feud. Guardara, however, benefited by his actions. Within a few seasons, he was elevated to chief and shaman, a position he never relinquished; one he jealously guarded.

The old man glanced quizzically at
Teman-e, wondering why he approached so hastily, skipping the usual formalities.

“I must speak with you! I have seen what I do not understand. I am frightened
of what it means for our people!”

Guardara
, curious to hear, rose slowly, motioning him inside.  Teman-e chose a fiber mat on the floor and sat facing him, breathing rapidly. The pungent odor of yopo, a hallucinogen used to summon shamanic spirits, wafted through the hut. Painted gourds, rooster claws and animal skulls hung from the walls. Dust covered everything.

“Be calm
Teman-e. Tell me what you have seen.”

Teman-e
told his story, and the old man listened with rapt attention, not asking any questions. He didn't doubt a man with this warrior’s respect, but concluded the vision should have been his alone to see. After all, he was the shaman. If others were to have his supernatural powers, he could lose respect, maybe his life. He meant to discourage pursuing this any further.

When
Teman-e finished, he stared at the chief, looking for an answer. Instead, there were questions.

“Was your son with you?”

“Yes”

“And did he too see such a sight?”

“No, he was on the ground, and the bird made no sound as it fell from the sky.

“How do you know your eyes didn’t trick you or you weren't dreaming?”

Guardara's comment took Teman-e by surprise, as he expected wise counsel and advice. Instead, there was skepticism in the chief’s voice. In other matters, Guardara would not have failed to summon spirits to guide him. Teman-e failed to understand his indifference and continued his plea.

“This has great meaning
. We need to understand. What I told you is true, I swear by our ancestors! We must go to where this creature landed and see what message it has for us.”

Guardara resented being told to do anything by anyone. He cautioned
Teman-e strongly.

“Speak of this to no one! I will call the elders and
tell them what you have said. We will decide what to do. Go to your woman and await my word.”

He closed his eyes in a gesture of dismissal
, signaling the conversation was over.

Teman-e
should have sensed Guardara’s reaction. Nevertheless, he was disappointed and immediately suspected the real reason behind the decision; resentment against whatever might compromise his position as shaman or the great power he held over the elders and tribesmen. Arguing was useless. Teman-e had to put the event behind him or suffer the considerable wrath of the tribal leader. He rose, bowed respectfully and returned to Naru who saw the distress etched on his face. He wanted to think, but at the same time, valued her opinion and comforting ways. He told her the story, describing it in great detail. She listened attentively, then asked simply:

“Are you
sure?”

“I have never been so sure of anything in my life. As sure as I am that, somewhere in the jungle tonight, I will hear the scream of a jaguar.”

“Then take rest in your hammock, do as you must.”

Naru always made good sense. Her advice was meant to allay whatever disturbed her husband, yet she could have no idea of the tragic events that were now put into motion. Later, she served him food that he picked at absent-mindedly. When he finished, he said nothing further and went to his hammock. That night, he tossed uncomfortably and heard the jaguar scream louder than he could ever remember. He would leave before the sun rose.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Remote jungle, the Amazonas

Connery
took a while to recover his senses. Water swirled around his head. Shallow enough that it didn’t interfere with his breathing. He was held by something weighty. He struggled, but whatever it was prevented him from moving. He tried focusing his thoughts. What had happened to bring him there? Why couldn’t he move? His mind was blank. Nothing clicked. It was all a dream, or had he died? If he did, this couldn’t be heaven- he was too afraid. Something else had paralyzed him; put him in this place. He cast his eyes downward, his brain registering a familiar item he had seen hundreds of times before. But what was it? He concentrated his thinking, almost willed the words to mind. In a millisecond it came to him, and with startling clarity, from nothingness to enlightenment. His seat buckle! Instantly, he recalled in vivid detail, the entire day's events. The mysterious object that held him secure was the seat of an airliner.

T
he air was thick, the smell of decay hovered, and mosquitoes tormented unrelentingly. He felt morbidly isolated, abandoned from anything human. He moved his eyes right, left, then above to where stately kapoks formed a canopy more than a hundred feet high, blocking the sun’s rays except for a few splashes of dappled light. The echoed cries of toucans and tropical parrots, chatter from monkeys, were the only sounds that broke an eerie silence. They seemed tranquil in comparison to city sounds, the constant honking of horns echoing off canyon walls.

Sensitivity in his limbs returned gradually, with it a level of pain he had rarely experienced.  He wanted to cry out, shout for someone to help him, then became aware of movement. A Lora snake, its venom among the most poisonous in the world, dropped from an overhead branch
into the water. He remained deathly quiet, not daring to blink as it moved closer to his face, at one point brushing its snout against his cheek. While not knowing the level of its deadliness, he sensed that if it struck, it would surely kill him. He held his breath, awaiting the stinging bite. But it never came. After several tense moments, the snake left in search of more inviting prey. The near deadly encounter convinced him that if he didn't move soon, he might become dinner for some jungle beast, or be snake bit.

He lifted his right arm to waist level, then grasped the seat buckle. It snapped open easily. Despite the force of ejection, it held him secure when he tumbled a hundred feet through branches and thicket, yet a simple upward motion released him. He could now roll onto his back, freeing his left arm, but it would take another twenty minutes to get out of the seat, into a sitting position.  He bent forward, once again stifled a yell and
grasped his side. He guessed two, possibly three ribs were cracked. Opening his tattered shirt, he saw a large black and blue bruise.

Two deep lacerations caused blood to cascade down his forehead into his eyes. Scalp wounds, even superficial ones, bleed profusely
. A bizarre image came to mind. How would he appear to someone who stumbled onto him at that very moment, sitting straight up in the water, bloody, un-recognizable face?
Like something from a freaking zombie movie!
He reached for the cool water, splashed several hands full onto his face and head. This helped, but only momentarily. A piece of cloth torn from his shirtsleeve stemmed the bleeding.

An ugly cut to the fleshy part of his thigh opened the possibility of infection. That was a problem
. But not the biggest. If he had broken bones in his ankles, or feet, he'd more than likely die right there. He pulled to a crouching position, intensely aware that the snake might return. He stood, first one leg then the other, wobbly, but upright. At least he could move. If he could do that, he could walk out of there to where he could get help.

There was no plausible answer as to why he survived. He could have slammed into any number of tree trunks and been instantly killed
. Instead, he miraculously missed hitting large branches and landed in an area of soft, dense undergrowth. He crashed through at the correct angle, which allowed the seat to absorb the impact, plunged through branches then dropped into the stream. He thought about racecar drivers whose cars were totally demolished, the driver walking away from a pile of twisted junk, unscathed.

His tolerance for pain was high. He could deal with
that. But where was he in this infinite expanse? He could be a mile from civilization, or five hundred.
What about my cell phone?
Without thinking, he reached for it, then came to his senses.  He was out of contact, held prisoner in a limitless maze of vegetation.

His most urgent need focused on surgical supplies. Without them, there was no way to adequately close his wounds and prevent infection. Only one place held the possibility of finding medical supplies; the wreckage site.  It had to be nearby, he reasoned, a
half mile at most, but with jungle so thick, that would present no easy task, even for someone in the best of health.  Beyond that, it made sense to return to the crash site, since it offered his best chance of rescue.

A strong odor of smoke drifted through the trees. Maybe he was overly optimistic there was anything left to the plane at all. The
jungle undoubtedly swallowed the wreckage. For search craft, it would be like trying to spot a life raft in the ocean at 3,000 feet. Sufficient fire and smoke, however, would attract attention. Hundreds of small planes were lost in the Amazon over the years, vanished forever in the great void. It was unlikely the same would hold true of an airliner with 225 aboard. Buoyed by the thought, he was confident that Search and Rescue would find the downed craft.  But what if they didn't? What if he found it and there was nothing left, no supplies, no food?

Find solutions! Not reasons why you can’t get out of this mess!

His eyes fell to the stream where telltale blue, gold, and green ribbons from jet fuel floated on the water. What if he found where the fuel entered the stream- the point where it originated? From there, he might be able to locate the wreckage. But it was late; he was exhausted, in need of rest. He'd begin his search in the morning.

He wasn't entirely out of his element
, since he had received survival training while in the Air Force. At the time, he remembered thinking how useless it seemed, something he never expected to need. Now it could save his life, and he would use everything at his disposal. He found a small clearing and took inventory; torn pants, torn shirt, belt, class ring, his keys and wallet. He remembered always carrying four Tylenol wrapped in tin foil and tucked in the wallet. They might dull the pain and allow sleep. He’d keep the tinfoil. It would come in handy for something, maybe a fish lure. Inside the wallet he found the card of the Brazilian businessman. He thought,
He’ll  have a long wait for me to attend that meeting.

He tore his remaining pant leg into strips for bandages. Next, he found a fibrous plant with long leaves that he wrapped around his rib cage and secured with the belt. But what if a wild animal attacked? He might have a fighting chance with a weapon, no matter how crude
. To his right, he spotted a straight piece of bamboo. He managed to snap off a shaft about six feet long. For the next hour, he used a rock to fashion a sharp point.

Retracing his steps back to the stream, he cleared jet fuel from the surface then drank thirstily. It occurred to him
after, that he could contract diarrhea from bacteria, but water was vital. Several hours elapsed since he had anything to drink. He was hungry too, but unfamiliar with the plants and strange looking fruits. Some could prove deadly. He didn’t want to add poisoning to his already lengthy list of physical ailments. He hoped to find bananas, or plantains. The stumps of banana trees, he remembered, contain a sap that is drinkable, but tastes horrible. Certain types of moss can also yield water. Those, and other small pieces of useful information, came back to him.

He decided to take dinner that night from the stream. With crude spear in hand, he sat waiting patiently for something, anything, to swim past. A half hour passed. Darkness crept over the jungle. He was about to give up
, when a large snake swam toward him.
The same one?
  As it came closer, he summoned his remaining strength, then thrust the pointed stick into its body, hoping it was sharp enough to penetrate. His ribs seemed ready to tear apart, but he caught it perfectly behind the head. Writhing furiously, it wrapped around the pole, trying to strike. He drove the spear in further, killing it.