FIFTY-TWO
Bitter!” Balthasar said in protest, making a face as he drank a concoction of dried, powdered cinchona bark. “Ah, gods! It’s so bitter.”
I folded my arms. “Just drink it.”
Wincing, he did.
It had not been an easy task to escort eight feverish men up the steepest part of the cliffs and trek for an hour through the jungle to Paullu’s village, but we had done it. Putting our trust in the hospitality of our new friends, we’d left behind the last of our food stores with the majority of our crew. Under Septimus Rousse’s direction, they were searching for a marupa tree to replace our lost canoe. In exchange for the generosity of Paullu’s villagers, we brought an array of glass and crystal beads and a couple of hand mirrors that delighted them to no end.
I found myself liking them.
Like the Maghuin Dhonn, they lived close to nature; and yet in some ways, they were more sophisticated than my mother’s solitary, reclusive folk. The village was a surprisingly elaborate configuration of thatch-roofed wooden buildings, often linked by bridges and walkways. They fished and hunted and foraged, but they grew crops in the jungle highlands, too.
Bao, who knew a great deal more about it than I did, praised their shaman’s knowledge of herb-lore.
“Look, Moirin.” He plucked a leaf from a shrub the shaman Atoc had shown him, rubbing it on his forearm and releasing a sharp, not displeasing, odor. “It helps keep the mosquitoes at bay.”
“I wonder how Eyahue missed that one in all his travels,” I said ruefully. “Mayhap it amused the local folk to see him suffer. Would that we’d known of it sooner.”
Bao shrugged. “Better now than never.”
Mindful of my role as a good spirit bearing gifts, not to mention the additional burden our numbers placed on their stores, I made it a point to contribute every day with a gift of fish or game. Thanks to the narrow hunting trails that laced the usually impenetrable jungle, I was able to procure several more of the tasty ground-fowl over the course of our stay.
Bitterness notwithstanding, the cinchona bark proved an effective cure. Within three days in the village, all the afflicted men’s fevers broke. There was no more incessant shivering, and the whites of Balthasar’s eyes began to clear, their uncanny yellow hue fading.
And for another mercy, we were able to determine that an earlier company of white-faced strangers had passed this way. It seemed they were reckoned bad spirits from the black river, something that remained a mystery. Despite having referenced it upon our initial meeting, Paullu was reluctant to discuss the black river.
“It is bad,” he said stubbornly. “Bad luck!” He shook his head vigorously. “You are good spirits, but you are no match for it. No one is. I should never have spoken of it. You should not go there. No one should go there anymore.”
“Where?” I asked, pointing downriver. “Vilcabamba?”
Paullu flinched. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He would not say. No one would. Only that it was a very bad thing, and to speak of it was to risk summoning it.
“It must have been a flood,” Eyahue determined. “Farther into Tawantinsuyo, in the highlands, the rivers that flow down from the mountains sometimes run black with silt.” He nodded at the narrow river that ran past the village, making its way to the big river. “I bet it flooded the day your prince passed through and turned black, maybe swept away a few people.” He chuckled. “You know how superstitious these jungle folk can be.”
I eyed him, thinking of the racks of skulls in the tzompantli. “I don’t see any signs of a major flood here.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. The jungle grows back fast.”
Whatever the truth, we got no more out of Paullu and the villagers. The mystery of the black river remained unsolved.
By the end of the third day, it was obvious that Balthasar and Jean and the others would be well enough to travel. Septimus Rousse reported that the replacement canoe was ready to launch. Since the beads had proved so popular among the villagers, Eyahue managed to barter several more strands for a renewed supply of sweet potatoes.
“We must have a feast before you go,” Paullu announced. “You are good spirits, but you are weak. You will help our women prepare masato to give you strength.”
I smiled at him. “You are kind.”
Eyahue translated my words, and Paullu’s face took on a serious expression. Reaching for my hand, he pressed it between his callused palms. “You do not know what you face. I tell you once more, you should not go to Vilcabamba.”
My diadh-anam flared in protest. “I have to,” I said simply.
Atoc, the village shaman, spoke. He was a cryptic fellow of indeterminate years, his dark eyes old and wise in his unlined face.
“He says you speak the truth,” Eyahue reported in a somber tone. “And he will ask the spirits of the forest to bless you.”
“Sulpayki, Atoc,” I murmured, thanking him.
The shaman bent his head toward me. “Imamanta.”
“Masato will give you strength,” Paullu repeated. “We will have a great feast in your honor.
I wondered what masato was and soon found out, somewhat to my dismay. It was a fermented beverage made by boiling and mashing manioc root, which was then chewed and spat into a large wooden tub, repeating the process over and over; a village endeavor undertaken collectively by all the women, one in which I was expected to participate.
Balthasar was horrified. “I think I’d rather eat grubs.”
I had to own, the first warm, grainy mouthful made my stomach churn, but the village women were laughing and jesting, enjoying the communal nature of the process. Paullu’s wife, Sarpay, pointed at Balthasar and made a suggestion that had all of them giggling.
“She says that since you are as pretty as a girl, you should help prepare the masato,” Eyahue informed Balthasar.
The latter fixed the old man with a death glare, which only made the women laugh harder.
Water was poured over the macerated manioc, and the resulting liquid was left in the hot sun to ferment for long hours. Paullu and his men returned from hunting with great fanfare, having trapped and slaughtered a wild pig. This was butchered with care, wrapped in leaves and set to cook in a firepit. By the end of the day, the scent of roasting pork made my mouth water.
Before the feast commenced, the shaman Atoc summoned Eyahue, Bao, and me, the three good spirits, for a ceremonial blessing. First he brushed us all over with a whisk of palm fronds, calling on the spirits of the forest to protect us. Then, crouching over a bowl, he ignited a mixture of herbs. Drawing up the smoke through a hollow reed, he blew it into our faces while the villagers watched.
“That is strong magic,” Paullu said in approval, fingering the strand of pale pink beads of rose quartz he now wore around his neck. “It will not keep you safe, but it will help.”
Bowls of masato were filled from the tub and given to everyone. The milky beverage was largely tasteless, but the fermentation made it slightly fizzy, and after the second bowl, I could feel its effects. Despite his grumbling, I was pleased to see that Balthasar’s sense of propriety overrode his reservations. With only the slightest grimace, he drained the bowl that Paullu’s wife, Sarpay, offered to him.
“If I didn’t know how it was made, it wouldn’t be that bad,” he admitted, wiping his mouth. He smiled at our hostess. “Sulpayki, Sarpay.”
With a delighted smile, she trotted off to refill his bowl.
Children shouted and clapped as the roasted pig was exhumed from the firepit, the rich, fatty aroma filling the air. We ate with our fingers, reveling in the abundance. Not even Balthasar could find fault with the pork.
Afterward, there was more masato, while the men danced with handheld drums, spinning in circles. And mayhap it was the effects of the manioc beer, but I found myself thinking that there was something poignant about the symbolism of the process by which it was made. As I knew all too well, thanks to the instruction of the Patriarch of Riva, in the Yeshuite faith, the sacrifice of the One God’s son is celebrated by partaking in the Eucharist, the bread and wine symbolizing the body and blood of Yeshua ben Yosef. This was a more literal affair, celebrating the hard-won bounty of the jungle and the deep reserve of strength found in the bonds of a tightly knit community.
When I tried to articulate the thought to Bao, he laughed at me. “I think you’re a bit drunk, Moirin.” He leaned close, whispering in my ear. “Don’t drink too much masato. I have a surprise for later.”
“Oh?” I raised my brows, but before Bao could give any further hints, Paullu came to pull him into the men’s dance, handing him a drum.
While the rays of the setting sun gilded the lush jungle around us, Bao spun in dizzying circles, bare-chested among the naked hunters, beating out a complex rhythm on the drum he held. I could not help but remember the performance he had arranged with the acrobats of Eglantine House in honor of the Montrèvan oath-swearing ceremony. It seemed so long ago and far away, it might have taken place in a different lifetime.
I thought of Desirée with a pang, and prayed that she was well. And then I pushed the thought aside with regret, for there was nothing I could do about it.
Bao spun, drumming.
The women clapped in approval, calling out jests and teasing their own men for failing to keep up with him.
“Friendship, eh?” Eyahue mused beside me.
I smiled. “Aye.”
At last the dusk began to deepen. The nocturnal creatures of the jungle began to emerge. Bats flitted in the high treetops, and ghostly moths with wing spans the size of a grown man’s two hands haunted the branches. One by one, the village folk began to drift away, carrying sleepy, satiated children to their dwellings.
Bao fetched up before me, the drum wedged under his arm, sweat glistening on his brown skin. “Paullu and Sarpay have agreed to lend us the privacy of their home for the night,” he announced. “That’s my surprise. Do you like it?”
I stood and kissed him, tasting salt. “Very much.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Good.”