The Storyteller (13 page)

I don't know how long I kept on, climbing up, rolling down, climbing up again. The channel had become a wide river after swallowing its banks. At last I was so tired out I let myself sink beneath the water. “I'm going to rest,” I said. “Enough of this useless struggle.” But do the ones who go like that rest? Isn't drowning the worst way to go? In a moment I'd be floating on the Kamabiría, the river of the dead, headed for the abyss with no sunlight and no fish: the lowest world, the dark land of Kientibakori. Meanwhile, without my noticing, my hands had grabbed hold of a tree trunk that the storm had cast into the river, perhaps. I don't know how I managed to climb onto it. Nor whether I fell asleep at once. The sun had set. It was dark and cold. The raindrops falling on my back felt like stones.

In my sleep I discovered the trap. What I'd taken for a tree trunk was an alligator. What sort of bark could those hard, prickly scales be? It's a caiman's back, Tasurinchi. Had the alligator noticed that I was on its back? If so, it would have been flicking its tail. Or it would have dived under to make me let go, and then bitten me underwater, the way caimans always do. Could it be dead, perhaps? If it were, it would be floating feet up. What are you going to do, Tasurinchi? Slip into the water very slowly and swim to the shore? I'd never have gotten there in that storm. You couldn't even see the trees. And, anyway, there might not be any land left in the world. Try to kill the alligator? I had no weapon. Back at the channel, while I was struggling up the bank, I'd lost my pouch, my knife, and my arrows. I'd best stay still, sitting tight on the alligator. Best wait till something or someone decided.

We were floating along, borne by the swift current. I was shivering with cold and my teeth were chattering. Thinking: Where can the little parrot be? The alligator didn't paddle with its feet or its tail, but just went where the river took it. Little by little it was getting light. Muddy water, dead animals, jumbled islets of roofs, huts, branches, and canoes. Here and there, men half eaten by piranhas and other river creatures. There were great clouds of mosquitoes, and water spiders crawling over my body. I felt them biting me. I was very hungry and perhaps I could have grabbed one of the dead fish the water was bearing along, but what if I attracted the alligator's notice? All I could do was drink. I didn't have to move to quench my thirst. I just opened my mouth and the rain filled it with fresh cold water.

At that point a little bird landed on my shoulder. From its red-and-yellow crest, its feathers, its gold breast, and its sharp-pointed beak, I took it to be a kirigueti. But it could have been a kamagarini or even a saankarite. For whoever heard of birds talking? “You're in a bad fix,” it chirped. “If you let go, the alligator's going to spot you. Its squinty eyes see a long way. It'll knock you out with one slap of its tail, grab you by the belly with its great toothy mouth, and eat you up. It'll eat you up bones and hair and all. Because it's as hungry as you are. But can you go on clinging to that caiman for the rest of your life?”

“What's the use of telling me what I know all too well?” I said. “Why don't you give me some advice, instead? What to do to get out of the water.”

“Fly,” it cheeped, fluttering its yellow crest. “There's no other way, Tasurinchi. Like your little parrot did when you were on the steep bank, or this way, like me.” It gave a little hop, flew about in little circles, and disappeared from sight.

Can flying be that easy? Seripigaris and machikanaris fly, when they're in a trance. But they have wisdom: brews, little gods, or little devils help them. But what do I have? The things I'm told and the things I tell, that's all. And as far as I know, that never yet made anyone fly. I was cursing the kamagarini disguised as a kirigueti, when I felt something scratching the soles of my feet.

A stork had landed on the alligator's tail. I could see its long pink legs and its curved beak. It scratched my feet, looking for worms, or perhaps thinking they were edible. It was hungry, too. Frightened though I was, it made me laugh. I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. Just the way all of you are laughing now. Doubling over, whooping with laughter. Just like you, Tasurinchi. And the alligator woke up, of course. It realized at once that things were happening on its back that it couldn't see or understand. It opened its mouth and roared, it flicked its tail furiously, and without knowing what I was doing, there I was, all of a sudden, clinging to the stork. The way a baby monkey clings to the she-monkey, the way a newborn suckling babe clings to its mother. Frightened by the flicking tail, the stork tried to fly away. But since it couldn't, because I was clinging to it, it started squawking. Its squawks frightened the alligator even more, and me, too. We all squawked. There we were, the three of us, seeing who could squawk the loudest.

And suddenly, down below, getting farther and farther away, I saw the alligator, the river, the mud. The wind was so strong I could hardly breathe. There I was, in the air, way up high. There was Tasurinchi, the storyteller, flying. The stork was flying, and clinging to its neck, my legs twined around its legs, I was flying, too. Down below was the earth, getting smaller. There was gleaming water everywhere. Those little dark stains must be trees; those snakes, rivers. It was colder than ever. Had we left the earth? If so, this must be Menkoripatsa, the world of the clouds. There was no sign of its river. Where was the Manaironchaari, with its waters made of cotton? Was I really flying? The stork must have grown to be able to carry me. Or maybe I'd shrunk to the size of a mouse. Who knows which? It flew calmly on, with steady sweeps of its wings, letting itself be carried by the wind. Untroubled by my weight, perhaps. I shut my eyes so as not to see how far away the earth was now. Such a drop, such a long way down. Feeling sad at leaving it, maybe. When I opened them again I saw the stork's white wings, their pink edges, the regular wingbeat. The warmth of its down sheltered me from the cold. Now and then it gurgled, stretching out its neck, lifting its beak, as though talking to itself. So this was the Menkoripatsa. The seripigaris rose to this world in their trances; among these clouds they held counsel with the little saankarite gods about the evils and the mischief of the bad spirits. How I would have liked to see a seripigari floating there. “Help me,” I'd say to him. “Get me out of this fix, Tasurinchi.” Because wasn't I even worse off way up there, flying in the clouds, than when I was perched on the back of the caiman?

Who knows how long I flew with the stork? What to do now, Tasurinchi? You won't be able to hang on much longer. Your arms and legs are getting tired. You'll let go, your body will dissolve in the air, and by the time you reach the earth, you'll be nothing but water. It had stopped raining. The sun was rising. This cheered me up. Courage, Tasurinchi! I kicked the stork, I yanked at it, I butted it, I even bit it to make it descend. It didn't understand. It was frightened and stopped gurgling; it started squawking, pecking here and there, flying first this way, then that, like this, to get rid of me. It nearly won the tussle. Several times I was just about to slip off. Suddenly I realized that every time I squeezed its wing, we fell, as though it had stumbled in the air. That's what saved me, perhaps. With the little strength I had left, I wound my feet around one of its wings, pinning it down so that the stork could hardly move it. Courage, Tasurinchi! What I hoped for happened. Flying on only one wing now, the other one, it flapped with all its might, but even so, it couldn't fly as well as before. It tired and started descending. Down, down, squawking; despairing, perhaps. I was happy, though. The earth was getting closer. Closer, closer. How lucky you are, Tasurinchi. Here you are already. When I grazed the tops of the trees, I let go. As I fell, down and down, I could see the stork, burbling for joy, flying on both wings again, rising. Down I went, getting badly scratched and battered. Bouncing from branch to branch, breaking them, scraping the bark from the trunks, feeling that I, too, was falling to bits. I tried to catch hold with my hands, with my feet. How lucky monkeys are, or any other creature that has a tail to hang by, I thought. The leaves and small branches, the vines and twining plants, the spiders' webs and lianas would check my fall, perhaps. When I landed, the shock didn't kill me, it seems. What joy feeling the earth beneath my body. It was soft and warm. Damp, too. Ehé, here I am. I've arrived. This is my world. This is my home. The best thing that ever happened to me is living here, on this earth, not in the water, not in the air.

When I opened my eyes, there was Tasurinchi, the seripigari, looking at me. “Your little parrot's been waiting a long time for you,” he said. And there it was, clearing its throat. “How do you know it's mine?” I joked. “There are lots of parrots in the forest.” “Well, this one looks like you,” he answered. Yes, it was my little parrot. It jabbered, pleased to see me. “You've slept for I don't know how many moons,” the seripigari told me.

Many things have happened to me on this journey, coming to see you, Tasurinchi. It's been hard getting here. I'd never have made it if it hadn't been for an alligator, a kirigueti, and a stork. Let's see if you can explain to me how that was possible.

“What saved you was your never once losing your temper from the beginning to the end of your adventure” was his comment after I'd told him what I've just told you. That's most likely so. Anger is a disorder of the world, it seems. If men didn't get angry, life would be better than it is. “Anger is what's to blame for there being comets—kachiborérine—in the sky,” he assured me. “With their fiery tails and their wild careering, they threaten to throw the four worlds of the Universe into confusion.”

This is the story of Kachiborérine.

That was before.

In the beginning the comet was a Machiguenga. He was young and peaceable. Walking. Content, most likely. His wife died, leaving a son, who grew up healthy and strong. He brought him up and took a new wife, a younger sister of the one he'd lost. One day, coming back from fishing for boquichicos, he found the lad mounted on his second wife. They were both panting, well satisfied. Kachiborérine went away from the hut, perturbed. Thinking: I must get a woman for my son. He needs a wife.

He went to consult the seripigari, who went and spoke to the saankarite and came back: “The one place you can get a wife for your son is in Chonchoite country,” he said. “But be careful. You know why.”

Kachiborérine went there, knowing full well that the Chonchoites chip their teeth to sharp points with knives and eat human flesh. He'd hardly entered their territory, just crossed the lake where it began, when he felt the earth swallow him. Everything went dark. I've fallen into a tseibarintsi, he thought. Yes, there he was, in a hole in the ground hidden by leaves and branches, with spears to impale peccaries and tapirs. The Chonchoites pulled him out, bruised and terrified. They wore devil masks that left their starving gullets showing. They were pleased, smelling him and licking him. They sniffed and licked him all over. And without further ado they ripped out his intestines, the way you clean a fish. There and then, they put the intestines to bake on hot stones. And as the Chonchoites, giddy, beside themselves with joy, were eating his entrails, Kachiborérine's gutted skin escaped and crossed the lake.

On the way back home he made a brew of tobacco. He was a seripagari too, maybe. In his trance, he learned that his wife was heating a potion with cumo poison in it, so as to kill him. Still not giving way to anger, Kachiborérine sent her a message, counseling her. Saying: “Why do you want to kill your husband? Don't do it. He has suffered a great deal. Instead, prepare a brew that will put back the intestines the Chonchoites ate.” She listened without saying anything, looking out of the corner of her eye at the youth who was now her husband. The two of them were living together, happy as could be.

Soon after, Kachiborérine reached his hut. Tired out from so much journeying; sad because of his failure. The woman handed him a bowl. The yellow liquid looked like masato, but it was maize beer. Blowing the foam from the surface, he eagerly drank it down. But the liquid, mixed with a stream of blood, came pouring out of his body that was nothing but a skin. Weeping, Kachiborérine realized that he was empty inside; weeping, that he was a man without guts or heart.

Then he became angry.

It rained. Lightning flashed. All the little devils must have come out to dance in the woods. The woman was frightened and started to run. She ran, up through the woods, to the field, stumbling as she ran. There she hid in the trunk of a tree that her husband had hollowed out to make a canoe. Kachiborérine searched for her, screaming in fury: “I'm going to tear her to pieces.” He asked the cassavas in the cassava field where she was hidden, and since they couldn't answer, he ripped them out by the handful. He asked the maguna and the datura: we don't know. Neither the plants nor the trees told him where she was hidden. So he slashed them with his machete and then stamped on them. Deep in the forest, Kientibakori drank masato and danced for joy.

At last, his head reeling from searching, blind with rage, Kachiborérine returned to his hut. He grabbed a bamboo cane, pounded one end, smeared it thickly with resin from the ojeé tree, and lighted it. When the flame leaped up, he grabbed the cane by the other end and shoved it up his anus, a good way up. Leaping about and roaring, he looked at the ground, looked at the forest. At last, choking with anger, pointing at the sky, he cried: “Where can I go, then, that's not this cursed world? I'll go up there above; I'll be better off there, perhaps.” He'd already changed into a devil and he started rising, higher and higher. Since then, that's where he's been, up there. Since then, that's who we see, now and again, in Inkite, Kachiborérine, the comet. You don't see his face. You don't see his body. Only the flaming cane he carries around in his anus. He'll go on his way in a fury forever, maybe.