When The Jaguar Sleeps: A jungle adventure (13 page)

Such a useless death.

Why did it happen?

There was no need for that. They weren’t armed nor dangerous looking, just lost and in need of help, but did not even get a chance to explain what they were doing there.

It was that amulet, the Inca’s gold that brought them bad luck. Yes, the Atahualpa’s curse fell on them. They shouldn’t have taken that damned thing with them. Since the day they put their hands on it, all had started to go wrong and they had found themselves twice in mortal danger.

Yet, a few days ago he was so full of hope.

Never, in a million years had he imagined it was all going to end like that.

Even when the Indians had taken them captive and brought to their village, he wasn’t loosing hope that he and Florent would somehow find a way to make their captors understand why they were there, and so they would let them free or maybe even help to get out of the jungle. But now he knew perfectly well it was not going to happen. This place wasn’t safe. He was all alone now among brutal enemies. He didn’t expect them to have mercy on him. And no chance that anybody would come here to save him.

The Indians were going to kill him and he could do nothing about it. Just sit and wait. This feeling of powerlessness was what unnerved him most. Then after some time passed by, his mood shifted and the consuming anger began slowly to ebb away. Instead of angry he felt only very tired now but was determined to stay vigilant. His eyes darted furtively around the gloomy interior desperate not to miss any movement that might signal danger. But directly after the uproar around Florent’s death stopped, the place went quiet and since then Didier hadn’t detected anything that would trigger his suspicions. Nothing more than just a serene homely scene was unfolding in front of him.

From the shady corners of the hut the Indian women gathered supplies for their evening meal. They wrapped something doughy in banana leaves and baked it over a fire. Then they brought the roasted body of an animal and placed it on layers of banana leaves. It was a monkey, its skin blackened and scorched by smoke, partly charred. One of the women chopped it up with a machete and threw the pieces into a cooking pot. Another woman poured a milky yellow liquid from a large earthenware jug into small bowls and hollowed-out gourds and passed them around to the men sitting in a circle by the biggest fire.

Each of them took a piece of the monkey meat and started to eat it greedily along with the baked mixture in banana leaves. They washed it all down with several bowls each of the thick straw-coloured drink.

One of the Indians brought food over to Didier, untied his hands and waited by his side until he had finished eating. He was very hungry and thirsty. The milky liquid served in a gourd had a sweet-sour flavour and the sticky white mass on the banana leaf tasted like sweet potato. However he left the monkey meat untouched. ‘Are they cannibals?’ Didier asked himself. ‘They eat monkeys, so why not me? Perhaps they think I am too skinny and are going to fatten me up. Then in a few days they’ll grill me over a fire and boil me in a pot like they did with the monkey.’ With such horrific thoughts swirling in his head he almost envied Florent’s quick death, fearing he would meet a far more cruel end.

After the evening meal the Indian men hand-rolled tobacco leaves and lit them, blowing out thick clouds of fragrant smoke while talking and gesticulating animatedly. The women and children slid into the hammocks, huddling together and swinging lazily.

The last pieces of wood on the fires burnt down, slowly plunging the interior of the hut into a gloomy darkness.

Presently no one paid any attention to Didier. Collapsing finally from exhaustion, he lay quietly on the palm leaves that covered the hard earthen floor. He turned around so as not to be able to see Florent’s dead body. Then he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep but couldn’t.

When they had finished smoking, some of the Indians left the hut. Only a few men, women and children stayed behind. They all slipped furtively into the hammocks. Silence descended upon the hut apart from vague jungle noises coming from outside. After a while, Didier became aware of a new mysterious sound inside: slowly articulated nasal words, some prolonged, others very short, repeated over and over with a shifting emphasis and in an unusual rhythmic pattern. One of the women was singing a lullaby. After a moment, other voices joined in. Didier could not help being captivated by the monotonous but enchanting melody. It had something hypnotic about it, making him feel light in the head, freeing him from unnecessary thoughts. The singing went on and on, occasionally fading but then getting stronger again.

Soon, though his body lay at an awkward angle and his hands and legs were tightly bound, he became lulled by the magical sounds and the snug warmth of the hut and did not even notice when he entered the world of dreams.

***

Next day, at the break of dawn, Brian woke first and climbed out of his sleeping bag. He quickly roused Antonio and José and ordered them to set off immediately on their hunt for the fugitives.

‘If one of them is injured they definitely won’t have got far.’

Each of the men took a machete, strapped a gun across his back and stepped out of the gloomy cave into the misty jungle.

Brian stayed in the cave with Rodrigo and two Indians employed to do the excavating. They were pressed for time. They had one more day left to unearth and collect treasures. The following day they would carry everything with them as they set off towards the river. From there, Diego
–
Antonio’s cousin
–
was going to take them by boat to a tiny grass runway hidden in the jungle.

It was already getting very hot in the upper chamber of the cave so they responded readily when Brian ordered them to go below to the cool underground.

Soon the quietness was interrupted by the loud blows of pickaxes as the men struck at the first of the large stone structures. Many hours of painstaking work were needed to split it open. It was not until well into the afternoon that they succeeded in doing so
–
but there was nothing of any value inside the tomb, just a skeleton and some decayed remains of clothes. Although Brian was inwardly seething with rage, he appeared unfazed at the failure to find anything significant. In an attempt to appease his anger, he ordered the men to get on immediately with breaking into the second of the tombs. Perhaps they would have more luck there.

It was late into the afternoon when Antonio and José returned, empty-handed. They’d been unable to track down the two fugitives. Another setback. Brian could feel the frustration rising in him, tensing his body; he clenched his fists at his sides to stop himself from exploding.

‘Better pray that they will not get out of the jungle alive but get killed by some wild beast or Indians. If not, I’ll make you pay for not catching them dearly.’

Once again, excavations underground dragged on late into the night.

D
idier awoke groggily as the first pale light of dawn seeped shyly into the hut. He rolled over onto his side and then somehow managed to sit up, groaning and grimacing. He stretched his back: after a night huddled uncomfortably on the hard floor, every muscle and joint in his body felt stiff and numb. His wrists and ankles ached and were chafed from the rough rope that was cutting mercilessly into the skin.

The other inhabitants of the hut were still cradled comfortably in the slope of their hammocks. Soon one of the women sprang to her feet and began to fan one of the fires with a few long parrot feathers, trying to kindle it from the still faintly glowing embers partially hidden under a thick layer of ash. Another, with an infant stuck to her chest, poured a milky, pale yellow drink into clay bowls and handed them to the men as they awoke. They drank in silence, then stretched lazily, and walked out into the forest. When they came back they rubbed their naked bodies with a yellowish-red, strongly fragrant oil with a musky and nutty odour. Then three young men roughly seized the inert body of Florent and carried it out of the hut. Another Indian man took a bundle of long palm leaves and threw it at the spot where a puddle of blood, now partially dry, had formed.

A little later the three young Indians returned. But they didn’t stay long. Each man picked up a blowgun and spear and went out into the jungle, leaving Didier alone in the hut with the women and children. Despite their nakedness the women moved with grace. The young ones had pleasing faces with fine features. Some were even beautiful in a strangely wild, exotic way.

His morning meal did not differ much from the previous evening’s consisting of some cassava pulp and the pale yellow fermented drink plus a couple of ripe bananas and a strange red fruit, as big as a plum and shaped like a pine cone. One of the women untied his aching wrists so he could eat and then re-fastened them tightly. For the rest of the morning nobody looked at him; apparently the novelty had worn off and he was no longer of interest.

Immediately after breakfast all the children ran outside and went down by the river. Their amused, carefree voices interlaced with laughter bounced off the huge tree walls producing a loud echo sound that travelled all the way up to the hut.

Didier sat on the hard, cold floor, slightly hunched, with his back against the wall. He felt sick. His stomach churned and his bowels were rumbling ominously. Waves of nausea swept over him while cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Was it something he had eaten or drunk? Had they poisoned him? Or was it just nerves?

Wincing at a sudden spasm of pain, he rubbed gently his stomach with his tied wrists while rocking himself back and forth. For a moment he felt better, but then the gripping pain returned and seemed even worse than before. He straightened up his back and breathed deeply a few times. His mouth felt parched, his tongue thick. He needed something to drink. He would prefer some cool water but anything would do as long as it quenched his thirst, even that strangely tasting milky yellow liquid he had drank earlier. His eyes moved inquiringly around the hut’s interior searching for something to drink, resting a bit longer on the jumble of objects hanging on the wooden poles, distinguishing among them some hollowed out calabashes. Finally they settled on a few earthen pots and bowls placed next to a fire. Could any of them contain water? It was worth checking. All the women were gathered in the opposite corner of the chamber. He shuffled clumsily his sore body towards the earthen pots. But before he had covered even half of the distance a familiar figure of an Indian woman loomed up at his side, coming out of nowhere, a warning look in her eyes. He stared pleadingly at her in response and gestured trying to make her understand that he wanted something to drink. Briefly, she scrutinized his haggard face, the large beads of sweat forming on his forehead and motioned him to move back to where he had come from. Then she went away but soon reappeared carrying an earthen bowl filled with some clear water and put it to his cracked lips. He downed it in one go.

Right away he felt better but it took some time yet before the pain and the sick feeling completely subsided.

‘There are only a few women and infants left in the hut. Look how short and slim they are. No match for you. Grab your chance. Run away. Just do it!’ an inner voice urged him.

‘Yes, but how?’

Although all the women were busy with their daily tasks and no one was looking his way, he knew they were secretly watching him. Even so he was determined to take the risk and try to flee. If it came down to it he would fight. But first he had to free his body from the constricting bonds.

He tried to wiggle his feet free but couldn’t. So then he used his teeth to undo the knots around his wrists. But it was soon apparent that this, too would not work. The ropes he had been tied with were very strong and wouldn’t loosen a bit, no matter what he did. For a moment he was at a loss what to do next. Suddenly an idea struck him. He called out. A young woman came over to him. He gestured that he urgently needed to go outside and relieve himself. She understood what he meant and called out for assistance. Then she bent down to untie his feet and his hands and helped him to stand up. Soon another young woman appeared by her side carrying a long spear in her hand and urged him to walk. He strode unsteadily toward the narrow door opening, the spear’s sharp end pointed at his back, almost touching it. As they passed by a fireside, a single smouldering log surrounded by a thick layer of grey ashes, Didier stumbled and fell on all fours. His fingers dragged through the warm ashes and closed into fists. Being hard-pressed by his guard, he stood up and headed towards the door opening. Once there, he turned quickly around and tossed handfuls of ashes at the woman with the spear. She stumbled, caught unaware, momentarily blinded. Not losing a second, he lurched outside and ran wildly ahead, frantically pushing his way through the dense bushes, dodging low-hanging branches and ropey lianas dangling from the forest canopy. His heart was thumping fiercely in his chest, blood was pounding at his temples. Soon he was short of breath and had to slow down or halt. All was quiet, he could hear no footsteps behind him. Incredible, but he had managed somehow to lose them. Gasping for air, he stopped at a tall palm tree.

‘I did it. I am free.’ He felt his muscles relax.

Somewhere nearby a monkey squeaked. He took a long deep breath, filling his lungs with oxygen. But before he even managed to exhale half of the air, a human figure silently materialized out of the milky fog in front of him. Then to his left and to his right two more. The Indian women. They caught him and held in a tight grip. He fought, trying in vain to get free. The women were far stronger than he had initially thought. They brought him back to the hut, tied his hands and feet and left him sitting in a shadowy corner. Soon an odd sinking feeling engulfed his entire body, his shoulders drooped, back hunched. A look of defeated resignation appeared in his eyes.

A few more quiet idle hours elapsed.

The temperature rose rapidly, and with each passing moment the air was getting more stifling and humid. Initially, the leafy roof and walls of the hut provided relief but as the heat outside intensified it began to invade the interior. Trickles of sweat kept running down Didier’s forehead and falling into his eyes, stinging them annoyingly. Every now and then he wiped them clumsily with his tied hands.

He watched as one of the women started to make a pot. She took a fist-sized lump of clay and pounded it skilfully to form a round base. Then she took some more clay and rolled it between her palms into long, snake-like coils. She then attached the coils one atop another onto the base, pressing gently with her thin fingers until a rough pot shape emerged. Finally she rubbed and smoothed it, refining its appearance.

A young mother left her infant cradled in a hammock and helped another woman to prepare the drink called chicha. They boiled manioc tubers and then mashed them using a wooden peg. Then they scooped out some of the sticky yellowish-white mass and put it into their mouths in small portions, chewed it thoroughly, and finally spit it into an empty pot. The enzymes in their saliva were supposed to quicken the fermentation process. Later Didier saw how they added water to the mashed manioc and blended everything together with their hands until there were no lumps. He recognised then the pale straw-like drink, milky in appearance, that he had drunk that morning and the night before. His whole body shook with disgust; bitter saliva flowed into his mouth and he could hardly stop himself from throwing up.

By early afternoon the Indian men returned from their hunting expedition. They each brought food, carrying it on their backs or shoulders. Apart from a couple of monkeys, Didier also saw an animal resembling a small wild pig with a stocky body covered with long dense brownish-black bristles. There was a palm leaf basket filled to the brim with fish, and another full of thick, squirming, yellowish-white palm weevil larvae, already familiar to him. There was so much food that it looked as if the Indians were getting ready for a big feast.

Wasting no time, the women started immediately to take care of the meat. With agile movements of the machete they cut the animal bodies in half and, after removing the entrails, roasted the meat over a fire. That day, only women and children were going to eat any of the meat. The following night the Indian men were going to take part in an ayahuasca ceremony and were not allowed to eat anything the day before. This short diet was supposed to purify them from the bad smell characteristic to all human beings which the spirits so much disliked. From walking many hours in the rainforest their bodies had acquired the smell of the jungle and had become acceptable to the spirits. Now the spirits wouldn’t be afraid to approach them and take them on an astral journey during which their soul would leave their physical body and roam freely around the higher, secret world, normally hidden to them.

After resting in their hammocks, the men drank some of the freshly prepared chicha, then one of the Indians untied Didier’s feet and signalled to him, gesticulating wildly with his hands, that he should get up and follow a group of them. They left the hut and headed in single file towards another one, situated a little higher up the hill. Then they followed a narrow path winding still deeper into the jungle. After about fifteen minutes’ walk yet another hut emerged from the trees, a little bigger than the previous two. They entered it through a low, narrow opening. Its interior was almost identical to the one where he had stayed the night. The only difference was that it was a bit larger, and a jaguar pelt with the head of the animal still attached to it was hanging on one wall.

It was the house of a shaman.

The man himself was not at home but they were greeted by his wife, an older, slender wrinkled woman with drooping breasts and a slightly sagging belly. Also there was their daughter, a young girl with a smooth, firm, swarthy complexion, large dark eyes, small breasts and quite broad, rounded hips, and their son, a young man with long, thick blue-black hair parted evenly in the middle of the head and falling loosely down to his shoulders. Didier was ordered to sit but hardly had time to do so before the son walked up to him and spoke clearly in Spanish. On hearing this language he knew his heart lifted – filled with sudden hope that maybe there was a slight chance that the Indians would help him get back to the civilised world. But as soon as he began to understand the meaning of the young man’s words his hopes were dashed.

‘I am Menga.’ The young Indian introduced himself. ‘This is the house of the great shaman, the Jaguar Father. Now, during the day when the jaguar is asleep, he went to look for the vine of the soul. Tonight, when the jaguar wakes up, he is going to ask him and the spirits of our forefathers, what we should do with you. You are our enemy, you trespassed on our land and took the gold of our great ancestors. You have no right to be here. You can bring danger on us.’

‘I do not have any bad intentions. If you help me to get out of here and back to Quito I swear I will not tell anybody about you,’ Didier began but Menga did not listen, interrupting him immediately in a firm voice.

‘It is not so simple. We cannot just let you go. Only the Jaguar Father has the right to decide what to do with you. Gabo brought upon us the wrath of the spirits of our ancestors and of the jaguar, because yesterday he killed your companion without asking first the permission of the elders. Tonight we have to appease the angry spirits and ask for advice on how to deal with you and probably to offer you as a sacrifice. There are different ways that you can meet death and we don’t know yet which one we should choose for you. Wait quietly till the night falls.’

Didier knew now that his fate would be sealed that night. What could he do? He could see no possible way out. His desire to fight for survival suddenly left him. His mood shifted and he was overcome by a bitter feeling of hopelessness and pending doom.

The shaman, a slim, long-haired older Indian man with a slightly wrinkled skin returned to the hut about an hour later. On his shoulders he brought a plaited basket filled with plants. These were special varieties of liana vines and some other medicinal plants, from which he was going to prepare a hallucinogenic brew called ayahuasca for the ceremony the next night. He took a few handfuls of herbs from his basket, cut them into smaller pieces with a machete and put them into a big pot, poured some water over, and placed it on the fire to boil.

The shaman and the people of his tribe worshiped the jaguar because they inhabited its kingdom, the tropical Amazonian rainforest. The name of the jaguar meant in the Indian language ‘he who kills with a single blow’. For many centuries their ancestors had worshipped the jaguar as their god. The jaguar represented power, strength and courage. The big cat endowed them with the ability to move beyond what they had imagined was possible, helping to overcome their distressing fear of darkness and giving them strength to face danger. Many years before, the shaman had been chosen by the jaguar spirits as their father and they empowered him to communicate with them.