Shabono: Part 1 - Chapter 04.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 1 - Chapter 04.

The next four days and nights seemed to melt into each other as we walked, bathed, and slept. They had a dream-like quality, in which oddly shaped trees and vines repeated themselves like images endlessly reflected in invisible mirrors- images that vanished upon emerging into a clearing of the forest or by a river beach where the sun shone fully on us.

By the fifth day my feet were no longer blistered. Milagros had cut up my sneakers, attaching softened pieces of vegetable fiber to the soles. Each morning he tied the makeshift sandals anew, and my feet, as if obeying an impulse of their own, would follow Milagros, and the old woman Angelica.

We always walked in silence, along trails bordered by leaves and ferns the size of a man. We crawled beneath the underbrush, or cut our way through the walls of creepers and branches that left our faces dirty and scratched. There were times when I lost sight of my companions, but easily followed the twigs Milagros was in the habit of breaking as he walked. We crossed rivers and streams spanned by suspension bridges made out of vines fastened to trees on either bank. They were so fragile-looking that each time we crossed one I feared it would not support our weight.

Milagros laughed, assuring me that his people, although weak navigators, knew the art of building bridges.

On some trails we discovered footprints in the mud, which according to Milagros indicated we were in the vicinity of an Indian settlement. We never got close to one for he wanted us to reach our destination without delay. "If I were on my own I would have arrived long ago," Milagros said every time I inquired as to when we would reach Angelica's village. Then, looking at us, he would shake his head, and add in a resigned tone, "Women slow you down."

But Milagros did not mind our relaxed pace. Often he made camp in the early afternoon at some wide river beach where we bathed in the sun-warmed pools, and dried ourselves on enormous smooth rocks jutting out of the water. Drowsily we watched the motionless clouds so slow to change their formations that it would be dusk before they disintegrated into different configurations.

It was during these lazy afternoons that I pondered over my motives in joining this bewildering venture. Was it to fulfill a fantasy of mine? Was I running away from some responsibility I could no longer handle? I even considered the possibility that Angelica might have cast a spell on me.

As the days passed my eyes became accustomed to the ever present greenness. Soon I began to distinguish red and blue macaws, rare toucans with black and yellow beaks. Once I even saw a tapir crashing through the undergrowth in search of water. It ended up as our next meal.

Monkeys with reddish fur followed us from above only to disappear as we continued through stretches of river between cascades, and by quiet channels reflecting the sky. Buried deep in the underbrush, on moss-covered logs, red and yellow mushrooms grew, so delicate that upon my touch they disintegrated as if made of colored dust.

I tried to orient myself by the large rivers we encountered, thinking they would correspond to those I remembered in geography books. But each time I asked for their names, they never coincided with mine, for Milagros only referred to them by their Indian designations.

At night under the light of the faint fire, when a white fog seemed to emanate from the ground and I felt the dampness of the night dew on my face, Milagros would begin talking in his low nasal voice about the myths of his people.

Angelica, with her eyes wide open, as if she were trying to keep awake rather than to pay attention, would sit up straight for about ten minutes before she was fast asleep. Milagros talked long into the night, bringing alive the time when beings who were part spirit, part animal, and part human, inhabited the forest- creatures who caused floods and disease, replenished the forest with game and fruits, and taught mankind about hunting and planting.

Milagros's favorite myth was about Iwrame, an alligator, who, before becoming an animal of the river, walked and talked like a man. Iwrame was the keeper of fire, which he hid in his mouth, refusing to share it with others. The creatures of the forest decided to entertain the alligator with a sumptuous feast, for they knew that only by making Iwrame laugh could they steal the fire. Joke upon joke was told until finally, unable to contain himself any longer, Iwrame burst into laughter. A small bird flew into the opened jaw, snatched the fire, and flew high into a sacred tree.

Without changing the basic structure of the various myths he chose to tell, Milagros modified and embellished them according to his mood. He added details that he had not thought of before, interjecting personal views that seemed to come at the spur of the moment.

Each night upon finishing his tales, Milagros said, "Dream, dream. A person who dreams lives long."

Was it real, was it a dream? Was I awake or asleep when I heard Angelica stirring? She mumbled something unintelligible, and sat up. Still befuddled, she pulled away the hair sticking to her face, looked around, then approached my hammock. She gazed at me with a strange intensity. Her eyes were enormous in her thin, wrinkled face.

She opened her mouth. Strange sounds came from her throat, and her whole body began to shake. I reached out my hand, but there was nothing- only a vague shadow receding into the bushes. I heard myself ask, "Old woman, where are you going?"

There was no reply- only the sound of dripping mist from the leaves. For an instant I saw her once more, the way I had seen her earlier that afternoon bathing in the river. Then she vanished in the thick night fog.

Without being able to stop her, I saw how she disappeared into an invisible crevice of the earth. No matter how much I searched, I could not even find her dress. "Was it is only a dream," I repeated to myself, yet I continued looking for her among the shadows, and amidst the leaves shrouded in mist. But there was no vestige of her.

I awoke with a profound anxiety. I noticed the heavy palpitations of my heart. The sun was already high above the treetops. I had never slept so late since starting our journey- not because I had not wanted to, but because Milagros insisted we rise at dawn. Angelica was not there; neither were her hammock or basket. Leaning against a tree trunk were Milagros's bow and arrows. Strange, I thought. He had never left without them before. Trying to appease my mounting distress, I kept repeating to myself that he must have gone with the old woman to gather the fruits or nuts he discovered yesterday afternoon.

I walked to the water's edge, not knowing what to do. They had never gone together before, leaving me behind.

A tree, infinitely lonely, stood at the other bank of the river, its branches bowed over the water, their weight supporting a network o£ creepers on which delicate red flowers bloomed. They clung like trapped butterflies in a gigantic spider's web.

A flock of parrots noisily settled on some vines that appeared to be growing out of the water without any visible support, for I could not distinguish the trees to which they belonged. I began to imitate the parrot's shrieks, but they remained completely unaware of my existence. Only when I walked into the water did they take flight, spanning a green arch across the sky.

I waited until the sun disappeared beyond the trees, and the blood red sky tainted the river with its fire. Listlessly I walked back to my hammock, poked the fire, and tried to revive the ashes. I became numb with terror as a green snake with amber-colored eyes stared into my face. With its head poised in midair, it seemed as startled as I. Afraid to breathe, I listened to the rustling of leaves as it slowly disappeared among the gnarled roots.

With absolute certainty I knew that never again would I see Angelica. I did not want to weep, but I could not control my tears as I buried my face in the dead leaves on the ground. As I had done in my dream, I whispered, "Old woman, where have you gone?"

I called her name across the immense green sea of growth. There was no answer from the ancient trees. Mutely, they witnessed my sorrow.

I barely made out Milagros's figure in the thickening shadows. Rigid, he stood before me, his face and body blackened by ashes. For an instant he held my gaze, then his eyes closed, his legs bent beneath him, and, exhausted, he sank to the earth.

I draped his arm over my shoulders in order to drag him toward my hammock, and with great difficulty I lifted him inside- first his torso, then his legs. I asked, "Did you bury her?"

He opened his eyes, stretching his hand toward the sky as if the distant clouds were within his reach. With great effort, he said, "Her soul ascended to heaven, to the house of thunder. The fire released her soul from her bones."

He then fell into a deep sleep.

As I watched over his restless dreams, I saw the shadowy bulk of phantom trees grow before my tired eyes. In the darkness of the night, these chimerical trees seemed more real and taller than the palms. I was no longer sad. Angelica had disappeared in my dream. She was part of the real and the fictitious trees. Forever she would roam among the spirits of vanished animals and mythical beings.

It was almost dawn when Milagros reached for his machete, and his bow and arrows lying on the ground. Absentmindedly he hung his quiver on his back, and without saying a word he walked into the thicket. I followed, afraid to lose him among the shadows.

In silence we walked for about two hours, then Milagros abruptly stopped by the edge of a cleared area in the forest. "The smoke of the dead is harmful to women and children," he said, pointing to a log pyre. It had partly collapsed, and in the midst of the ashes I could see darkened bones.

I sat on the ground and watched Milagros dry over a small fire a log mortar that he had made from a tree trunk. Something between horror and fascination kept my eyes glued on Milagros as he began sifting through the ashes for Angelica's bones. He crushed them with a slender pole until they were reduced to a gray-black powder.

Milagros said, "Through the smoke of the fire, her soul reached the house of thunder."

It was already night as he he began filling our gourds with the powdered bones, and sealed them with a sticky resin.

I wistfully said, "If she could only have kept death waiting a little longer."

Milagros looked up from the mortar. "It makes no difference."

His face was without expression yet his black eyes were bright with unshed tears. His lower lip trembled, then set in a half smile. "All she wanted was for her life essence to be once again part of her people."

Without really understanding what Milagros was saying, I replied, "It is not the same."

As if excusing my ignorance, he said, ""Her life essence is in her bones. Her ashes will be among her people in the forest."

But I insisted, "She is not alive. What good are her ashes when she had wanted to see her people?"

An uncontrollable sadness overcame me at the thought that never again would I see the old woman's smile or hear her voice and laughter. I continued, saying, "She never got to tell me why she was so certain I would come with her."

Milagros began to cry. He picked up pieces of coal from the pyre, he rubbed them against his tear-stained face, and said, "One of our shamans told Angelica that although she would leave her settlement, she would die among her own people, and her soul would remain a part of her tribe."

Milagros looked at me sharply as I was about to interrupt him. He continued, saying, "The shaman assured her that a girl with the color of your hair and eyes would make sure that she did."

I replied, "But I thought her people had no contact with whites."

Tears still flowed from Milagros's eyes as he explained that there had been a time when his people had lived closer to the big river. He softly said, "Nowadays there are only some old people left who still remember those days. For a long time we have been moving farther and farther into the forest."

I saw no reason to continue the journey, I thought despondently. What would I do without the old woman among her people. She had been my reason for being here. I asked, "What shall I do now? Are you going to take me back to the mission?"

Then, seeing Milagros's puzzled expression, I added, "It is not the same to take her ashes."

As he tied one of the ash-filled gourds around my waist, he murmured "It is the same. For her it was the most important part."

My body stiffened for an instant, then relaxed as I looked into Milagros's eyes. His blackened face was awesome, and sad at the same time. He pressed his tear-stained cheeks against mine, then re-blackened them with coals. Timidly I touched the gourd around my waist. It was light, like the old woman's laughter.