Two
The thin trail of smoke slithered toward the clouds like a cobra charmed by the music of the coming rain. Though it was hard to tell how distant the fire was, it worried Daria. It seemed more than a bonfire. And hours too early for that besides.
If there was trouble in another nearby village, they would come looking for Nate. He wouldn’t be back for several days, and she would rather the neighboring villages not know that she was alone.
She turned back to the flatbread she was making, slapping the coarse dough hard with the heel of her hand, forming a thin disk that would fry crisp in a pan of grease over the coals. It was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but at least keeping busy helped soothe her worries. With Nate gone, she had kept an erratic schedule, eating and sleeping whenever the mood struck her. She hadn’t realized how much stability his presence brought, even to the mundane things of life.
She looked again toward the grey wisp of smoke and noted that it was in the general direction of the village to which Nate had traveled. Perhaps he could see it from where he was and would go to help if it signaled trouble.
She missed him. Oh, how she missed him. The jungle was treacherous and unpredictable, but when Nathan was with her, it was truly a paradise. Once she had grown accustomed to the spiders, snakes, and amphibious creatures that teemed in their corner of Colombia, she had seldom felt afraid. The soft plunk of afternoon raindrops on massive palm leaves and the calls of the wild creatures that inhabited the rain forest had become sounds of security. They were as much the sounds of home for her now as the lowing cattle, distant train whistles, and song of the meadowlark had been on the Kansas prairie where she grew up.
Now, with Nathan away, Daria felt as though a part of her was missing. He had made trips without her before—to hunt with the Timoné men and, recently, to treat the ill in outlying villages. Usually he was gone overnight, two days at most. This time was different, and she wasn’t prepared for the dull ache of loneliness that came over her on this fifth night of his absence.
She placed the circle of dough on a clean stone and brushed the coarse cornmeal from her hands. She climbed to the stoop and ducked inside the doorway to their hut. She took a frying pan from its hook on the wall and a can of grease from the narrow shelf over the window.
Though she had been a farm girl, she had never been a camper, and cooking over an open fire had been a hard-earned skill. She smiled to herself, thinking of the many meals of blackened bread and scorched meat they had endured while she learned, at Nate’s insistence, to cook as the Timoné did. The small hut she and Nate had inherited from the missionary who had served before them was set apart from the rest of the village, but she knew the villagers had not missed the pitifully thick smoke that had rolled from her cast-iron skillet during those first weeks. Nor had they missed the reason for Nate’s casual forays into the village proper just as their fires were emitting the enticing perfume of golden brown flatbread and tender roasted meat and vegetables. She knew she had been laughed at much in those early days, but she didn’t care. They were a kind people and didn’t intend to hurt her feelings. Besides, she knew how to laugh at herself—and she could lie in Nate’s arms at night and delight in that sweetest bliss of shared laughter.
“That was an interesting recipe you made tonight,” he’d told her one night after she’d ruined supper two evenings in a row. His tone was serious, but his smile blazed in the darkness. A long pause while she waited for his punch line. “Really, Daria,” he said finally, “you should write a cookbook—except I hear blackened food is already passé back in the States.”
She put an elbow hard to his ribs. “If you’d just let me have a stove you’d be surprised what a good cook I might be! Just think of the juicy pies and cookies and chocolate cakes and—”
Then he locked her in his arms and playfully rolled her over, his sweet tooth aching, she knew, at her torturous litany of his weaknesses. “Not fair!” he cried.
He deftly changed the subject with the kisses that were her weakness, wrestling her gently on the soft grass mat that was their bed. They shared their love in whispers and muffled giggles so their voices wouldn’t be heard across the stream in the village.
She never had managed to wear him down about the stove—not even after one of the villagers acquired a propane cooker. Nate had come to be part of the Timoné culture, and to him buying a stove was like giving in to his spoiled American upbringing.
She shook off the poignant memory. Brushing a strand of sun-bleached hair from her face, she scooped grease into the skillet and carried it outside. The flames had died down, and the coals were just right for baking. Soon the corn bread sizzled, spattering drops of grease into the fire and filling the air with its fragrance. After a minute, she flipped the circle of dough expertly and put the pan back on the fire.
While the bread finished frying, she stretched her arms lazily over her head and panned her gaze to the darkening afternoon sky. In the hills to the north, the trail of smoke had grown darker, a swirling column now that was a deeper grey than the rain-heavy sky. It made her think of the funnel clouds that often ravaged the flat-lands of Kansas. A chill went up her spine, and she wondered briefly if she should try to radio Bogotá and report the fire.
The wind came up as it did almost every afternoon, carrying swollen clouds, swaying the branches and palm fronds overhead, making a commotion as familiar as her own breath. As the first raindrops penetrated the forest umbrella, Daria took the skillet from the fire and hurriedly climbed to the doorway of the hut. She went in to sit at the crude bench near the window, her eyes avoiding the empty mat in the corner where she would sleep alone again tonight.
Ten days had passed with no sign of Nathan or Quimico and Tados. For the first time in her life, Daria tasted terror.
Yesterday, after two days of silence, Bob Warrington, their contact in Bogotá, had gotten through to her on the radio. Daria attempted to sound unconcerned when she told Bob that Nathan had not yet returned. Now she regretted it.
She walked to the commons in the center of the village, her prayers for Nate’s safety interrupted by thoughts of what she would do if he still wasn’t back tomorrow—or the next day, or the next. She said a quick amen as she spotted the children gathering in the large, thatch-roofed shelter, which served as the village gathering place.
Little Jirelle came running to greet her, the light in her eyes twinkling from behind a curtain of shiny, jet-black bangs. “Hollio, Teacher!” she cried.
“Hollio, Jirelle. Ceju na. Come here.” For her own sake as well as the children’s, she deliberately repeated her Timoné words in English.
Jirelle shyly took Daria’s hand and walked with her the rest of the way to the commons. Daria smiled, remembering how she had struggled with what her role as a missionary should be when they first arrived. Nate could offer his gift of healing—he had known since childhood that he wanted to be a doctor. She, however, had left college after her sophomore year, still not having declared a major.
She had found the first hint of her gift in her job as a teacher’s aide when Nate was still in medical school. But what could she teach these Timoné children? She and Nate recognized something precious in the primitive simplicity of these people’s lives. The Timoné had no need for the technologies that cluttered life. Nate was adamant that he and Daria had not come to Americanize or civilize the Timoné. They had come to offer healing—for the body and for the soul.
Finally unearthing the connection between her gift and their need, Daria had organized an informal Bible class. She had first begun meeting with the children outside the hut she and Nate shared, but her little group had soon grown so large that the village leaders suggested that she move to the commons. In spite of the language barrier, the twenty or so who were allowed to come for an hour each morning had learned much, and she had finally begun to feel that her presence here had meaning.
Daria let go of Jirelle’s hand and went to greet the other children who were still straggling in from the crude pathways that wound through the village. Their high, nasal chattering filled the air.
“Hollio, Tommi. Hello, Gilberto. Gabrielle, is this for me?” She took a rather wilted hibiscus blossom the size of a dinner plate from a chubby little girl. “égracita, Gabrielle. It is beautiful. Mui béleu.”
She greeted each child by name as they took their places along three rows of narrow benches that faced the west. The children quieted and she went to stand at the front of the shelter and opened the colorfully illustrated children’s Bible. She walked up and down the rows, giving each child a chance to see the pictures of the brave and trusting young man named Daniel and the ferocious lions he faced.
“Who would like to play the lions?” she asked, pointing to the pictures in the book.
Ten grubby little-boy hands went into the air, and they all began auditioning for the role by baring their teeth and “claws” and yowling loudly. Their howling made them sound more like Colombian jaguars, and Daria earned their hysterical laughter when she demonstrated a deep roar. But they soon became fluent in “lionese” and went to stand in one corner of the shelter that she had designated to be the lions’ den. She chose Gilberto to play Daniel. He was a bit of a ham and easier to manage when he had a starring role.
The impromptu production went splendidly, and Daria was grateful to have her mind taken off of Nathan for a while. But as she bade the children farewell and walked back to their hut, her thoughts turned again to her husband.
“Please, Father. Be with him, wherever he is. Bring him back safely,” she whispered.
How long did Nate have to be missing before Bob Warrington would instigate a search? What if she couldn’t get through on the radio? What if she needed to leave and Anazu refused to help her? She blocked the roiling questions from her mind and prayed that by tomorrow her worries would be needless because Nate would be home safe in her arms.
“Daria, I just want you to know that I’m doing everything possible to get a search party organized—in case we need it. We’re not overly concerned yet. We knew it would take some time. But it has been a bit longer than we expected.” She knew he meant to reassure her, but even though his words were chopped up on the airwaves, Bob Warrington’s trepidation transmitted loud and clear.
Nate had been gone almost two weeks. It had been more than forty-eight hours since her last contact with Bogotá. Her panic had grown hourly as she stayed inside the hut, trying desperately to get through on the radio. She had wept with relief to hear the radio spring to life minutes ago.
“Bob, have you reported Nate missing yet? To our families, I mean?” She had to repeat the question twice over constant static before he got it.
“No, we haven’t. Frankly, I was hoping you’d have good news when I got through this morning. Do you want me to let your families know what’s going on?”
She hesitated. “No, not yet,” she finally told him, shouting into the receiver. “Unless you think we should.” Their parents had all been against their going. She couldn’t bear to think of them worrying and wondering from afar when there was nothing they could do.
She waited for his reply, knowing that if he believed it was time to inform their families, he was more worried than he let on. But when he agreed with Daria that it would be premature to alert their families in the States just yet, she sighed in relief. “It’s possible that everything is fine and that the trip is just taking longer than Nate anticipated,” he told her. “But I do think it’s time to start looking for him.”
She knew his unspoken fear: Paramilitary units were thick in the coca growing regions on the Rio Guaviare. They were notorious for killing suspicious parties and asking questions later.
“We’ll keep in close touch, Daria. We’re all praying for you. I’m sure Nate is fine,” Bob reassured her unconvincingly before signing off.
Knowing that it would be days before anyone could get to the village from Bogotá, Daria sought out Anazu in the village.
She found him crouching near the river’s edge, cleaning a mess of fish. Kneeling beside him, she spoke in her halting Timoné. “Anazu, kopaku…please. It is time to search for Dr. Nate,” she begged, trying desperately to strike the right balance of authority and deference in her voice. “Would you send Motsu and Javier to bring him back? Kopaku? Your nephews know the way on the river,” she coaxed.
He looked up from his task, his dark eyes thoughtful and kind. “Dr. Nate is with men who know the jungle well. They will bring him home when the time is ripe.”
His calm manner and kindness reassured her somewhat. “Yes,” she told herself. “Quimico and Tados will bring him home.” Yet her heart doubted. Even the families of the young men had begun to complain that Dr. Nate had not yet returned their sons and brothers to them as he’d promised.
She decided not to push Anazu on the matter and instead thanked him for considering her request. He nodded and flashed her a familiar smile, his white, even teeth almost glowing against the contrast of burnished copper skin. Deeply disheartened, she returned to the hut.
When the sun came up on the following day, Daria rose and went to stand at the small window over their bed.
“Please, Lord,” she prayed. “Soften Anazu’s heart. I need his help. Help me to know what to say to him, Father. Give me the words that will convince him that it’s time to look for Nate. Give me strength.”
She was just getting ready to walk to the commons for morning lessons when Bob Warrington’s voice crackled over the radio. Her heart pounding, she jumped up and ran to the crude table where the radio sat.
“Daria?” Bob’s voice broke up in an eruption of static, and Daria strained to hear his message. “I’ve spoken with Gospel Outreach, and they think it’s time to send in a search party. They want you to try to get to San José del Guaviare. They’ll fly over the area from there, but they want you with them if at all possible.”
“I really don’t know how much help I’d be, Bob,” she said, her voice trembling. It terrified her to think of leaving Timoné without Nate. “I… I know the village, Chicoro, is on the river,” she told Bob, “but even Nate wasn’t sure how far upstream it was.” Though she knew Nate had given Bob the information before he’d set out, she repeated all she could remember of what the runner from Chicoro had told them when he came for Nate.
“I still think you need to be in that plane,” Bob insisted. “Is there someone there you trust to get you to San José?”
She told him of Anazu’s refusal to go after Nate. “He might be more willing to take me to San José, familiar territory, but”—her voice rose an octave and grew thick with panic—“what if Nate comes back while I’m gone, Bob?”
“Leave a message for him, Daria. If that happens, he can radio me, and we’ll get you back to Timoné.” He spoke with measured words, as though he were speaking to a child. She willed confidence into her tone as they arranged for her to meet a contact at the airstrip in San José del Guaviare, two days down the river. Reluctantly she signed off and went to find Anazu again, her mind reeling.
Even before God, she didn’t dare put into words what her leaving Timoné would mean, that something was terribly wrong, that Nathan was sick or wounded, or worse…in the Colombian jungle. But now that the plans were in motion, she was relieved. At least she was doing something. She couldn’t continue to wait indefinitely, doing nothing at all. Perhaps she had already waited too long. Yet even if she could convince Anazu or his nephews to take her to San José, she worried that there was nothing she could do when she got there.
She castigated herself for not learning the Timoné language more fluently. During the year before they arrived, she and Nate had studied the Castilian Spanish spoken in most of Colombia, but they were not prepared for how different the Indian dialect of the Timoné was. She had depended too much on Nathan to communicate in the primitive tongue that was a peculiar mix of Spanish and Portuguese with a smattering of Swahili—from the African slaves brought to Colombia centuries before, they’d been told. Nate was beginning to speak the language quite passably and was teaching English to Tados and Quimico, his young protégés. But Daria still struggled. She had taught the children a few English words. They were quick and eager students. But now she knew she should have concentrated more on learning Timoné from them.
As she walked through the village, searching again for Anazu, such aimless ramblings filled her thoughts, veiling the growing knowledge that something terrible had happened to her husband.
Later that morning, Dana went through the motions of her Bible lessons. She tried not to think that this might be her last time with these children, perhaps forever. But when she found a round mahogany face and two brown beads of eyes staring up at her after class, her throat tightened. The young boy clutched something behind his back.
“Hollio, Tommi.” It was a shortened version of his given name, which was, for her, unpronounceable. She had bestowed the nickname on him, and it had stuck. Even his mother now sometimes called him “Tommi.”
She knelt down in the soft dirt beside him. “What have you got there?”
The broad grin he gave her made narrow slits of his dark eyes. “I give,” he said in English, holding out a greenish banana. He thrust the sweet-smelling fruit at her. “Teacher,” he said simply.
She held the banana to her nose and sniffed it appreciatively. “Thank you, Tommi. Just the way I like them. Green.” Always the teacher, she pointed to the green stem and repeated her comments in her broken Timoné.
“Green,” Tommi repeated, still grinning. Then he ran off to join the other children for a splash in the cool stream. Watching them, Daria fought back tears. These children had become such a part of her life, giving her so much more than she could offer them. Their sweet kindnesses, simple trust. Their love.
That afternoon Anazu began to ready the small boat that his nephews would carry on their heads through the rain forest until they reached the first entry into the Rio Guaviare.
“Thank you, Lord,” Daria whispered as she watched the strong, sun-burnished backs of Anazu’s nephews, Motsu and Javier, loading provisions into the boat.
She walked back through the village and climbed the stairs to sit on the stoop. The afternoon rains had ceased, and now the sun coaxed vapors of steam from the damp forest floor. Daria sat there, listening to the children playing across the stream, and yet a panic began to wrap its paralyzing tendrils around her. A small, still-sane part of her brain told her that she must go to San José del Guaviare exactly as she’d been instructed. If the search didn’t turn up something right away, she knew they would probably offer to fly her out of Colombia and back to the States. But she couldn’t bear to think of leaving Nathan behind.
The visceral part of her brain told her to get up and run. Run down the tangled path where she had seen her husband’s broad back disappear almost three weeks ago. Run and search every green, wet inch of the godforsaken forest that had taken him away from her. Search until she found him and brought him home—home to Timoné.
But she stayed on the stoop late into the afternoon, watching Anazu’s preparations from a distance.
As she sat there again that night, the fires in the village dying, Daria thanked God that Anazu had agreed to her request. Then for the thousandth time, she whispered a prayer for Nate’s safety. She gazed into the star-crested sky and thought back to that last night she and Nathan had spent together before he left on his journey.
And now, aching for him, searching the sky for “their” star, she was consumed with fear that she might never have a chance to tell him that a starry sky would forever remind her of how much she loved him—and how much she was loved by him.
Early the next morning as she packed her belongings, the breakfast fires in the village reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything since Tommi’s banana the afternoon before. Anazu had kept her well supplied with roasted meat, but she’d had no appetite. She fought back the nausea that had dogged her for a week; lack of sleep and food, and the tremendous stress of Nathan’s absence had taken their toll. Finally she finished packing and went to find something her stomach wouldn’t reject.
As she pulled her skillet from its hook on the wall, a shout from the forest pierced the air. The pan fell from her hands and clattered to the floor as she ran outside.
Quimico and Tados came into the clearing, striding breathlessly toward the center of the village. Her heart leapt into her throat and she ran to meet them, straining to see Nate’s tall, lean figure.
The two men motioned wildly to her, shouting words she could not understand.
The villagers came running from all directions and gathered around the men.
Quimico spoke the same urgent words over and over again. Fogorio. Defuerto. Daria heard the syllables clearly, but her mind wouldn’t allow them to make sense to her. It was as though she had never heard the Timoné tongue before.
But while his words seemed alien to her ears, the heartsick expression on Quimico’s face spoke a language she understood only too clearly.