Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 5 - Chapter 19.

Whenever the sun pierced through the clouds, I went with the women and men to work in the gardens. The weeds were much easier to pull from the soaked ground, but I had little energy. Like old Kamosiwe, I just stood amidst the high blades of the manioc plants, and soaked up the light and warmth of the sun. Counting the birds, which had not appeared for days, crossing the sky, I wished for the hot rainless days. After so many weeks of rain, I longed for the sun to stay long enough to lift the mist.

One morning I felt so dizzy I could not get out of my hammock. I lowered my head toward my knees, and waited for the spell to pass. I did not have the strength to lift my head and answer Ritimi's anxious words which were lost in the loud persistent noise around me. It must be the river, I thought, since it was not too far away.

But then I realized the noise came from another direction. Desperately, as if my life depended on it, I tried to think where the sound actually came from. It came from within me.

For days I heard nothing but drumming in my head. I wanted to open my eyes. I could not. Through my closed lids I saw the stars burn brighter instead of fading in the sky. Panic seized me at the thought that it would be night forever, that I was descending deeper and deeper into a world of shadows and disconnected dreams.

Waving from misty riverbanks, Ritimi, Tutemi, Etewa, Arasuwe, Iramamowe, Hayama, old Kamosiwe drifted by me. Sometimes they jumped from cloud to cloud, sweeping the mist with leafy brooms. Whenever I called them, they melted into the fog. Sometimes I could see the light of the sun, shining red and yellow, between branches and leaves. I forced my eyes to stay open, and realized it had only been the fire dancing on the palm-thatched roof.

"White people need food when they are sick," I distinctly heard Milagros's shouts. I felt his lips on mine as he pushed masticated meat into my mouth.

Another time I recognized the shapori Puriwariwe's voice. "Clothes make people ill." I felt him pull my blanket away. "I need to cool her down. Get me white mud from the river." I felt his hands coil around my body, covering me with mud from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. His lips left a trail of coldness on my skin as he sucked the evil spirits out of me. My hours of wakefulness and sleep were filled with his voice.

Wherever I focused my eyes in the darkness, Puriwariwe's face appeared. I heard the song of his hekura. I felt the sharp hummingbird's beak cut open my chest. The beak turned into light. Not the light of the sun or the light of the moon, but the dazzling radiance of the old shapori's eyes. He urged me to look into his deep pupils. His eyes appeared lidless, extending toward his temples. They were filled with dancing birds.

The eyes of a madman, I thought.

I saw his hekuras suspended in dewdrops, dancing in the shiny eyes of a jaguar, and I drank the watery tears of the epena. A violent tickling in my throat tightened my stomach until I vomited water. It flowed out of the hut, out of the shabono, and down the path to the river, melting with the night of smoke and chanting.

Opening my eyes, I sat up in my hammock. I distinctly saw Puriwariwe running outside the hut. He stretched his arms to the night, his fingers spread wide as if summoning the energy of the stars. Turning around, he looked at me. "You are going to live," he said. "The evil spirits have left your body." Then he disappeared into the shadows of the night.

After weeks of violent storms, the rains abated to an even, almost predictable pattern. Dawns would arrive opaque and misty, but by mid-morning white fluffy clouds would drift across the sky. Hours later the clouds would gather above the shabono. They would hang so low that they appeared to be suspended from the trees, ominously darkening the afternoon sky. A heavy downpour would follow, fading to a light drizzle that often continued far into the night.

I did not work much in the gardens during those rainless mornings but usually accompanied the children into the swamps that had formed around the river. There we would catch frogs and pry out crabs from underneath stones.

The children, on all fours, eyes and ears alert to the slightest motion and sound, pounced with uncanny agility. on the unsuspecting frogs. With eyes that looked almost transparent because of the diffused light, the little girls and boys worked with the precision of evil gnomes as they pulled the fiber loops around the frogs' necks until the last croak died down. Smiling, with the candor only children have when unaware of their cruelty, they would cut open the frogs' feet so that all the blood, which was believed to be poisonous, could flow out. After the frogs had been skinned, each child would wrap his catch in pishaansi leaves and cook them over the fire. With manioc gruel, they tasted delicious.

Mostly, I just sat on a rock in the tall bamboo grass and watched rows of shiny black and yellow scarabs climb with careful, almost imperceptible slowness up and down the light green stems. They looked like creatures of another world, protected by their brilliant armor of obsidian and gold. On windless mornings it was so quiet in the bamboo grass that I could hear the beetles sucking sap from the tender shoots.

Early one morning, Arasuwe sat at the head of my hammock. There was a cheerful glow on his face, extending from his high cheekbones to his lower lip, where a wad of tobacco protruded. The concentration of wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he grinned, adding a reassuring warmth to his expression. I fixed my gaze on his thick, ribbed nails as he cupped his brown hand to catch the last drops of honey from a calabash. He extended his hand toward me and I dipped my finger in his palm. "This is the best honey I have had for a long time," I said, licking my finger with relish.

"You can come with me downriver," Arasuwe said. He went on to explain that with two of his wives and his two youngest sons-in-law, one of which was Matuwe, he was going to an abandoned garden where months earlier they had felled several palm trees to harvest the tasty palm hearts. "Do you remember how much you liked the crisp, crunchy shoots?" he asked. "By now the decaying pith in the dead trunks must be filled with fat worms."

As I was pondering on how to express that I would not like the grubs as much as I had enjoyed the palm hearts, Ritimi came to sit beside me. "I will also go to the gardens," she said. "I have to watch over the white girl."

Arasuwe blew his nose, flicking the mucus away with his forefinger, then laughed. "My daughter, we are going by canoe. I thought you did not like traveling on water."

"It is better than walking through a swampy forest," Ritimi said flippantly.

Ritimi came instead of Arasuwe's youngest wife. For a short distance we walked along the riverbank until we reached an embankment. Hidden underneath the thicket was a long canoe.

"It looks like one of the large troughs you use for making soup," I said, eyeing the bark contraption suspiciously.

Proudly, Arasuwe explained that both were made in exactly the same fashion. The bark of a large tree was loosened in one piece by pounding the trunk with clubs. Then the ends were heated over a fire to make them pliable enough to be folded back and pinched into a flat-nosed basin, and finally the ends were lashed together with vines. A crude framework of sticks Was added to give the boat its stability.

The men pushed the canoe into the water. Giggling, Arasuwe's second wife, Ritimi, and I climbed inside. Afraid to upset the tub-like craft, I did not dare move from my crouching position. Arasuwe maneuvered the canoe with a pole into the middle of the river.

With their backs turned to their mother-in-law, the two young men sat as far away from her as they could. I wondered why Arasuwe had brought them at all. It was considered incestuous for a man to be familiar with his wife's mother, especially if the woman was still sexually active. Men usually avoided their mothers-in-law altogether, to the extent that they did not even look at them. And under no circumstances did they say their names aloud.

The current seized us, carrying us swiftly down the gurgling, muddy river. There were stretches when the waters were calm, reflecting the trees on either side of the bank with exaggerated intensity. Gazing at the mirrored leaves, I had the feeling we were ripping through an intricately laced veil. The forest was silent. From time to time we caught sight of a bird gliding across the sky. Without flapping its wings, it seemed to be flying asleep. The ride was over all too soon. Arasuwe beached the canoe in the sand amidst black basalt rocks.

"Now we have to walk," he said, looking at the dark forest ascending in front of us.

"What about the canoe?" I asked. "We should turn it upside down so the afternoon rain will not fill it with water."

Arasuwe scratched his head, then burst into laughter. He had mentioned on different occasions that I was far too opinionated- not necessarily because I was a woman, but because I was young. Old people, regardless of sex, were respected and held in esteem. Their advice was sought and followed. It was the young ones who were discouraged from voicing their judgments. "We will not use the boat to get back," Arasuwe said. "It is too hard to pole upriver."

"Who is going to take it back to the shabono," I could not help asking, afraid we would have to carry it.

"No one," he assured me. "The boat is only good for going downstream." Grinning, Arasuwe turned the canoe upside down. "Maybe someone else will need it to go farther downriver."

It felt good to move my cramped legs. We walked silently through the wet, marshy forest. Matuwe was in front of me. He was thin and long legged. His quiver hung so low on his back that it bumped back and forth on his buttocks. I began to whistle a little tune. Matuwe turned around. His scowling face made me giggle. I had the overwhelming temptation to poke his buttocks with the quiver, but controlled my impulse. "Do you not like your mother-in-law?" I asked, unable to refrain myself from teasing him.

Grinning shyly, Matuwe blushed at my impudence for having spoken Arasuwe's wife's name aloud in front of him. "Do you not know that a man can not look at, talk to, or be near his mother-in-law?"

His stricken tone made me feel guilty for having teased him. "I did not know," I lied.

Upon arriving at the site, Ritimi assured me that it was the same abandoned garden she and Tutemi had taken me to after our first encounter in the forest. I did not recognize the place. It was so overgrown with weeds, I had a hard time finding the temporary shelters I knew to stand around the plantain trees.

Slashing the weeds with their machetes, the men looked for the fallen palm tree trunks. After uncovering them, they dug out the decaying pith, then broke it open with their bare hands. Ritimi and Arasuwe's wife shrieked ecstatically as they saw the wriggling grubs, some as big as Ping-Pong balls. Squatting beside the men, they helped bite off each larva's head, pulling it away together with the intestines. The white torsos were collected in pishaansi leaves. Whenever Ritimi damaged a grub, which she did quite often, she ate it raw on the spot, smacking her lips in approval.

Despite their mocking pleas that I help them prepare the grubs, I could not bring myself to touch the squirming blobs, let alone to bite off their heads. Borrowing Matuwe's machete, I cut down banana fronds with which to cover the roofs of the badly weathered shelters.

Arasuwe called me as soon as some of the larvae were roasting on the fire. "Eat it," he urged, pushing one of the bundles in front of me. "You need the fat- you have not had enough lately. That is why you have diarrhea," he added in a tone that begged no argument.

I grinned sheepishly. With a resoluteness I did not feel, I opened the tightly bound package. The shrunken, whitish grubs were swimming in fat; they smelled like burnt bacon. Watching the others, I first licked the pishaansi leaf, then carefully popped a grub into my mouth. It tasted wonderfully similar to the burned gristly fat around a New York steak.

At dusk, soon after we had settled into one of the repaired huts, Arasuwe announced in a solemn tone that we had to return to the shabono.

"You want to travel at night?" Matuwe asked incredulously. "What about the roots we wanted to dig up in the morning?"

"We cannot stay here," Arasuwe reiterated. "I can feel it in my legs that something is about to happen at the shabono." Closing his eyes, he swung his head to and fro as if the slow, rhythmic movement could provide him with an answer as to what he should do. "We have to reach the shabono by dawn," he said determinedly.

Ritimi distributed among our baskets the nearly forty pounds of grubs the men had recovered from the decaying palm trunks, placing the smallest amount into mine. Arasuwe and his two sons-in-law took the half-burned logs from the fire, then we set out in single file. To keep the makeshift torches glowing, the men blew on them periodically, dispersing a shower of sparks amidst the damp shadows.

At times the almost full moon cut through the leaves, casting an eerie, bluish-green light on the path. The tall tree trunks stood like columns of smoke dissolving in the humid air, as if intent on eluding the embrace of vines and parasitic growths hanging across space. Only the trees' crowns were perfectly outlined against the moving clouds.

Arasuwe stopped often, cocking his ear to the slightest sound, his eyes darting back and forth in the darkness. He breathed deeply, dilating his nostrils, as if he could detect something besides the smell of wetness and decay. When he looked at us women, his eyes appeared anxious. I wondered if the memories of raids, ambushes, and God knows what other dangers rushed through his mind. But I did not dwell for too long on the headman's worried expression. I was too concerned in making sure the exposed roots of the giant ceibas were not bulging anacondas digesting a tapir or a peccary.

Arasuwe waded into a shallow river. He cupped his hand behind his ear as if trying to catch the faintest sound. Ritimi whispered that her father was listening to the echoes of the current, to the murmur of the spirits that knew of the dangers lying ahead. Arasuwe placed his hands on the surface of the water, and for a moment held the reflected image of the moon.

As we walked on, the moon faded into a misty, barely discernible image. I wondered if the lonely clouds traversing the sky were trying to keep abreast of us in their journey toward morning. Little by little, the calls of monkeys and birds faded, the night breeze ceased, and I knew dawn was not far away.

We arrived at the shabono at that time of still indeterminate grayness when it is no longer night and not yet morning. Many of the Iticoteri were still asleep. Those who were up greeted us, surprised to see us back so soon.

Relieved that Arasuwe's fears had been unfounded, I lay down in my hammock.

I was awakened abruptly when Xotomi sat beside me. "Eat this quickly," she urged, handing me a baked plantain. "Yesterday I saw the kind of fish you and I like best." Without waiting to hear whether or not I was too tired to go, she handed me my small bow and short arrows. The thought of eating fish instead of grubs quickly dispelled my fatigue.

"I want to come too," little Sisiwe said, following us. We headed upriver, where the waters formed wide pools. Not a leaf stirred, not a bird or frog could be heard.

Squatting on a rock, we watched the early rays of the sun filter through the mist-enshrouded canopy of leaves. As if strained through a gauzy veil, the faint rays lit the dark waters of the pool.

"I heard something," little Sisiwe whispered, holding on to my arm. "I heard a branch snap."

"I heard it too," Xotomi said softly.

I was sure it was not an animal but the unmistakable sound of a human who steps with caution, then stops at the noise he has made.

"There he is," Sisiwe shouted, pointing across the river. "It is the enemy," he added, then fled toward the shabono.

Grabbing my arm, Xotomi pulled me to the side. I turned around. All I saw were the dewy ferns on the opposite bank. At that same instant Xotomi let out a piercing scream. An arrow had hit her in the leg. I dragged her into the bushes by the side of the path, insisting we crawl farther into the thicket until we were hidden completely.

"We will wait here until the Iticoteri come to rescue us," I said, examining her leg.

Xotomi wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "If it is a raid, the men will stay in the shabono to defend the women and children."

"They will come," I said with a confidence I was far from feeling. "Little Sisiwe went for help." The barbed point had pierced through her calf. I broke the arrow, pulled the head from the ghastly wound that was bleeding from both sides, then wrapped my torn underpants around her leg. Blood soaked through the thin cotton instantly. Worried that the arrow might have been poisoned, I carefully undid the makeshift bandage and examined the wound once again to see if the flesh around it was getting dark. Iramamowe had explained to me that a wound caused by a poisoned arrow invariably darkened. "I do not think the arrowhead was smeared with mamucori," I said.

"Yes. I also noticed," she said, smiling faintly. Leaning her head to one side, she motioned me to be still.

"Do you think there is more than one man?" I whispered when I heard the sound of a twig snapping.

Xotomi looked at me, her eyes wide with fear. "There usually are."

"We can not wait here like frogs," I said, taking my bow and arrows. Quietly, I crawled toward the path. "Show your face, you coward, you monkey! You have shot at a woman!" I yelled in a voice that did not sound like my own. For good measure I added the words I knew an Iticoteri warrior would say, "I will kill you on the spot when I see you!"

No farther than twelve feet from where I stood a blackened face peeked from behind the leaves. His hair was wet. I had an irrational desire to laugh. I was sure he had not taken a bath, but had slipped crossing the river, for the water was only waist high.

I pointed my arrow at him. For an instant I was at a loss as to what to say next. "Drop your weapons on the path," I finally shouted. Then for good measure I added, "My arrows are poisoned with the best mamucori the Iticoteri make. Drop your weapons," I repeated. "I am aiming at your stomach, right where death lies."

Wide-eyed, as if he were apprehending an apparition, the man stepped out on the trail. He was not much taller than I, but was powerfully built. His bow and arrows were clutched tightly in his hands.

"Drop your weapons on the ground," I repeated, stomping my right foot for emphasis.

With careful slowness, the man placed his bow and arrows on the path in front of him.

"Why did you shoot at my friend?" I asked as I saw Xotomi crawling out to the path.

"I did not want to shoot at her," he said, his eyes fixed on the torn, bloodied makeshift bandage wrapped around Xotomi's leg. "I wanted to shoot at you."

"At me!" I felt helpless in my anger. I opened and closed my mouth repeatedly, unable to utter a single word. When I finally regained my speech, I stammered insult upon insult in all the languages I knew, including Iticoteri, which had the most descriptive profanities of all.

Transfixed, the man stood in front of me, seemingly more surprised by my foul language than at the arrow I still held pointed at him. Neither one of us noticed Arasuwe and Etewa approach.

"A Mocototeri coward," Arasuwe said. "I ought to kill you on the spot."

"He wanted to kill me," I said in a cracking voice. I felt all my courage melt away, leaving me shaking. "He shot Xotomi in the leg."

"I did not want to kill you," the Mocototeri said, eyeing me supplicantly. "I only wanted to hit your leg so as to prevent you from running away." He turned to Arasuwe. "You can be assured of my good intentions; my arrows are not poisoned." He looked at Xotomi. "I hit you accidentally when you dragged the white girl away," he mumbled, as if not fully accepting that he had missed.

"How many more of you are here?" Arasuwe asked, squatting beside his daughter. Not for a moment did he take his eyes from the Mocototeri as he ran his fingers over the wound. "It is not bad," he said, straightening up.

"There are two more." The Mocototeri imitated the call of a bird, and was immediately answered by similar cries. "We wanted to take the white girl with us. Our people want her to stay at our shabono."

"How do you think I could have walked if I was injured?" I asked.

"We would have carried you in a hammock," the man said promptly, smiling at me.

Shortly, two other Mocototeri emerged from the thicket. Grinning, they stared at me, not in the least embarrassed or afraid for having been caught.

"How long have you been here?" Arasuwe asked.

"We have been watching the white girl for several days," one of the men said. "We know she likes to catch frogs with the children." The man smiled broadly as he turned toward me. "There are many frogs around our shabono."

"Why have you waited so long?" Arasuwe asked.

In the frankest manner the man observed that there had always been too many women and children around me. He had hoped to capture me at dawn when I went to relieve myself, for he had heard that I preferred going far into the forest by myself. "But we did not see her go, not even once."

Grinning, Arasuwe and Etewa looked at me, as if waiting for me to elaborate on the matter. I stared back at them. Since the rains had started, I had noticed a lot more snakes around the usual places set aside for bodily functions, but I was not going to discuss with them where I went instead.

With the same enthusiasm as if he were telling a story, the Mocototeri went on to explain that they had not come to kill any of the Iticoteri, or to abduct any of their women. "All we wanted was to take the white girl with us." The man laughed, then uttered, "Would it not have surprised you and your people if suddenly the white girl had disappeared without leaving a trace?"

Arasuwe conceded that indeed it would have been quite a feat. "But we would have known it was the Mocototeri who had taken her. You were careless enough to leave footprints in the mud. I saw plenty of evidence as I was scouting around the shabono that Mocototeri had been here. Last night I had the certainty something was amiss- that is why I returned so promptly from our trip to the old gardens." Arasuwe paused for a moment, as if giving the three men time for his words to sink in, then declared, "Had you taken the white girl with you, we would have raided your settlement and taken her back, as well as some of your women."

The man who had shot Xotomi in the leg picked up his bow and arrows from the ground. "Today was a good time, I thought. There was only one woman and a child with the white girl." He looked helplessly at me. "But I hit the wrong person. There must be powerful hekuras in your settlement protecting the white girl." He shook his head, as if full of doubt, then fixed his gaze on Arasuwe. "Why does she use a man's weapon? We saw her one morning at the river with the women, shooting fish like a man. We did not know what to think of her. That is why I failed to hit her. I no longer knew what she was."

Arasuwe commanded the three men to walk toward the shabono.

I was overwhelmed with the absurdity of the whole situation. Only the thought that Xotomi had been hurt kept me from laughing, yet a convulsive smile kept rising to my lips. I tried to keep a sober expression but I could feel my mouth twitching. I carried Xotomi piggyback, but she laughed so hard her leg started to bleed again.

"It will be easier if I lean against you," she said. "My leg does not hurt too much."

"Are the Mocototeri prisoners?" I asked.

She looked at me uncomprehendingly for an instant, then finally said, "No. Only women are taken captive."

"What will happen to them at the shabono?"

"They will be fed."

"But they are enemies," I said. "They shot you in the leg. They ought to be punished."

Xotomi looked at me, then shook her head as if knowing that it was beyond her to make me understand. She asked me if I would have killed the Mocototeri if he had not dropped his weapons on the ground.

"I would have shot him," I said loud enough for the men to hear. "I would have killed him with my poisoned arrows."

Arasuwe and Etewa glanced back. The stern expression on their faces relaxed into a smile. They knew my arrows were not poisoned. "Yes, she would have shot you," Arasuwe told the Mocototeri. "The white girl is not like our women. Whites kill very fast."

I wondered if I actually would have shot my arrow at the Mocototeri. I certainly would have kicked him in the groin or stomach had he not dropped his bow and arrows. I was aware of the folly of trying to overpower a stronger opponent, but I saw no reason a small person could not startle an unsuspecting assailant with a quick punch or kick. That, I was sure, would have given me enough time to run away. A kick would certainly have shocked the unaware Mocototeri even more than my bow and arrows. That thought gave me much comfort.

Arriving at the shabono, we were met by the Iticoteri men staring at us down the shaft of their drawn arrows. The women and children were hiding inside the huts. Ritimi came running toward me. "I knew you would be fine," she said, helping me carry her half-sister into old Hayama's hut.

Ritimi's grandmother washed Xotomi's leg with warm water, then poured epena powder into the wound. "Do not get out of your hammock," she admonished the girl. "I will get some leaves to wrap around your calf."

Exhausted, I went to rest in my hammock. Hoping to fall asleep, I pulled the sides over me. But I was awakened shortly by Ritimi's laughter. Leaning over me, she covered my face with resounding kisses. "I heard how you scared the Mocototeri."

"Why did only Arasuwe and Etewa come to rescue us?" I asked. "There might have been many Mocototeri men."

"But my father and husband did not come to rescue you," Ritimi informed me candidly. She made herself comfortable in my hammock, then explained that no one in the shabono had realized I had gone with Xotomi and little Sisiwe to catch fish. It was purely accidental that Arasuwe and Etewa had found Xotomi and myself.

Arasuwe, following his premonitions, had gone to scout the shabono's surroundings upon returning from our night-long trek. Although he suspected that something was amiss, he had not actually known there were Mocototeri outside.

Her father, Ritimi declared, was only performing his headman's duty and checking to see if there was evidence of intruders. It was a task a headman had to perform by himself, for usually no one was willing to accompany him on such a dangerous mission. No one was expected to.

Only lately had I come to realize that although Arasuwe had been introduced to me by Milagros as the headman of the Iticoteri, it was an uncertain title. The powers of a headman were limited. He wore no special insignia to distinguish him from the other men, and all adult males were involved in important decisions. Even if a judgment had been reached, each man was still free to do what he pleased.

Arasuwe's importance stemmed from his kinship following. His brothers, numerous sons, and sons-in-law gave him power and support. As long as his decisions satisfied the people of his shabono, there was little dispute as to his authority.

"How come Etewa was with him?"

"That was totally unforeseen," Ritimi said, laughing. "He was probably returning from a clandestine rendezvous with one of the women of the shabono when he stumbled upon his father-in-law."

"You mean no one would have come to rescue us?" I asked incredulously.

"Once the men know that the enemy is around, they will not purposely go outside. It is too easy to be ambushed."

"But we could have been killed!"

"Women are hardly ever killed," Ritimi stated with utter conviction. "They would have captured you. But our men would have raided the Mocototeri settlement and brought you back," she argued with astounding simplicity, as if it were the most natural course of events.

"But they shot Xotomi's leg." I felt like crying. "They intended to maim me."

"That is only because they did not know how to capture you," Ritimi said, putting her arms around my neck. "They know how to deal with Indian women. We are easy to abduct. The Mocototeri must have been at their wits' end with you. You should be happy. You are as brave as a warrior. Iramamowe is certain you have special hekuras protecting you, so powerful they even deviated the arrow intended for you into Xotomi's leg."

"What will happen to the Mocototeri?" I asked, looking into Arasuwe's hut. The three men were sitting in hammocks, eating baked plantains as if they were guests. "It is strange how you treat the enemy."

"Strange?" Ritimi looked at me, puzzled. "We treat them right. Did they not reveal their plan? Arasuwe is glad they did not succeed." Ritimi mentioned that the three men would probably stay with the Iticoteri for some time- especially if they suspected that there was a good chance their settlement was to be raided by the Iticoteri. The two shabonos had been raiding back and forth for many years- as far back as her grandfather's and great-grandfather's time, and even before.

Ritimi pulled my head toward her and whispered in my ear, "Etewa has been wishing to take revenge on the Mocototeri for a long time."

"Etewa! But he was so happy to go to their feast," I said, bewildered. "I thought he liked them. I know Arasuwe believes they are a treacherous lot- even Iramamowe. But Etewa! I was sure he was delighted to dance and sing at their party."

"I told you once that one does not go to a feast only to dance and sing but to find out what other people's plans are," Ritimi whispered. She looked at me anxiously. "Etewa wants his enemy to think that he has no intention of avenging his father."

"Was his father killed by the Mocototeri?"

Ritimi put her hand to my lips. "Let us not talk about it. It is bad luck to mention a person who has been killed in a raid."

"Is there going to be a raid?" I managed to ask before Ritimi pushed a piece of baked plantain in my mouth.

She only smiled at me but did not answer. The thought of a raid made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I had a hard time swallowing the plantain. Somehow I had associated raids with the past. The few times I had asked Milagros about them, he had been vague with his answers. Only now did I wonder if there had been regret in Milagros's voice when he stated that the missionaries had been quite successful in their attempt to put an end to inter-village feuding.

"Is there going to be a raid?" I asked Etewa as he entered the hut.

He looked at me, his face set in a scowl. "That is not a question for a woman to ask."

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 5 - Chapter 20.

It was dusk when Puriwariwe walked into the shabono. I had not seen him since my illness, since the night he had stood in the middle of the clearing, arms outstretched as if pleading with the darkness.

From Milagros I had learned that for six consecutive days and nights the old shapori had taken epena. The old man had been on the verge of collapsing under the weight of the spirits he had called into his chest. Yet perseveringly he had beseeched the hekuras to cure me from the onslaught of a tropical fever.

Ritimi had also emphasized that it had been a particularly hard struggle to cure me in that the hekuras resent being called in the rainy season. "It was the hekura of the hummingbird that saved you," she had explained. "In spite of its small size, the hummingbird is a powerful spirit. It is used by an accomplished shapori as a last resort."

I had not been comforted in the least when Ritimi had wrapped her arms around my neck, assuring me that if I had died my soul would not have wandered aimlessly in the forest but would have ascended peacefully to the house of thunder, for my body would have been burned and my pulverized bones would have been eaten by her and her relatives.

I joined Puriwariwe in the clearing. "I am well now," I said, squatting beside him.

He looked at me with veiled, almost dreamy eyes, then ran his hand over my head. It was a small dark hand that moved rapidly, yet felt heavy and slow. A vague tenderness softened his features, but he did not say a word. I wondered if he knew that I had felt the beak of a hummingbird cutting into my chest during my illness. I had told no one.

A group of men, their faces and bodies painted black, gathered around Puriwariwe. They blew epena into each other's noses, and listened to his chant, pleading with the hekuras to come out of their hiding places in the mountains. The men's black figures were more like shadows, barely illuminated by the fires of the huts. Softly, they repeated the shaman's songs. I felt a chill run up my spine as the quickened pace of their unintelligible words became more menacing and forceful.

Upon returning to the hut I asked Ritimi what the men were celebrating.

"They are sending hekuras to the Mocototeri settlement to kill the enemy."

"Will the enemy really die?"

Drawing up her knees, she looked pensively beyond the palm fringe of the hut into the pitch-dark sky, bereft of moon and stars. "They will die," she said softly.

Convinced there was not going to be a real raid, I dozed off and on in my hammock, listening to the chanting outside. More than hearing the men, I visualized the fragments of sound, endlessly rising and falling, as being carried away by the smoke from the hearths.

Hours later I got up and sat outside the hut. Most of the men had retired to their hammocks. Only ten remained in the clearing, Etewa among them. With closed eyes, they repeated Puriwariwe's song. His words came to me clearly through the humid air.

The shapori's song was interrupted abruptly by one of the men. "I have been struck by the sun- my eyes are burning," he shouted as he stood up. He looked helplessly around in the darkness. His legs gave way under him and, he collapsed with a thud on the ground. No one took any notice.

Puriwariwe's voice became more insistent, as if he were trying to raise the men collectively toward his vision. He repeated his song again and again to those still squatting around him. Urging the men not to get sidetracked in the dew of their visions, he warned them of spear-like bamboo leaves and poisonous snakes lurching from behind trees and roots on the path to the sun.

Above all, he urged the men not to pass into human sleep, but to step from the darkness of the night to the white darkness of the sun. He promised them that their bodies would be soaked with the glow of the hekuras, that their eyes would shine with the sun's precious light.

I remained outside the hut until the dawn erased the shadows on the ground. Expecting to find some visible evidence of their journey to the sun, I walked from man to man, peering intently into each face.

Puriwariwe watched me curiously, a mocking grin on his haggard face. "You will find no outward indication of their flight," he said as if he had read my thoughts. "Their eyes are dull and red from the night's vigil," he added, pointing to the men who were staring indifferently into the distance, totally unconcerned with my presence. "That precious light you expect to see reflected in their pupils, only shines inside them. Only they can see it."

Before I had a chance to ask him about his journey to the sun, he had walked out of the shabono into the forest.

In the days that followed, a gloomy oppressive mood enveloped the settlement. At first it was only a vague feeling, but I finally became obsessed with the certainty I was being purposely kept in the dark about some impending event. I became morose, distant, and irritable. I struggled against my sensation of isolation. I tried to hide my ill-focused apprehension, yet I felt as if I were being attacked by unidentifiable forces. Whenever I asked Ritimi or any of the other women if there was some approaching change, they would not even acknowledge my question. Instead they would comment on some silly incident, hoping to make me laugh.

"Are we going to be raided?" I finally asked Arasuwe one day.

He turned his perplexed face toward me as if he were trying to untangle my words.

I felt confused, nervous, and close to tears. I told him that I was not stupid, that I had noticed how the men were constantly on the alert and how the women were afraid to go by themselves into the gardens or to fish in the river. "Why can someone not tell me what is going on?" I yelled.

"There is nothing going on," Arasuwe said calmly. Folding his arms behind his neck, he stretched comfortably in his hammock. He began to talk about something unrelated to my question, chuckling frequently at his own tale.

But I was not to be soothed. I did not laugh with him. I did not even pay attention to his words. He seemed totally bewildered as I stomped back to my hut.

I was miserable for days, feeling alternately resentful and sorry for myself. I did not sleep well. I kept repeating to myself that I, who had so totally embraced this new life, was suddenly treated like a stranger. I felt angry and betrayed.

I could not accept that Arasuwe had not taken me into his confidence. Not even Ritimi had been willing to put me at ease. If only Milagros were here, I wished fervently. Surely he would dispel my anxiety. He would tell me everything.

One night, when I could not quite lose myself in sleep, but hovered in a half-waking state, I was suddenly hit by an insight. It did not come in words, but translated itself as a whole process of thoughts and memories that flashed like pictures before me, and put everything into a proper perspective.

I felt elated. I began to laugh with relief that turned into sheer joy. I could hear my laughter echo through the huts. Sitting up in my hammock, I noticed that most of the Iticoteri were laughing with me.

Arasuwe squatted by my hammock. "Have the spirits of the forest made you mad?" he inquired, holding my head between his hands.

"Quite mad," I said, still laughing. I looked into his eyes; they shone in the darkness. I gazed at Ritimi, Tutemi, and Etewa standing next to Arasuwe, their curious, sleepy faces aglow with laughter. Words blurted out of me in an unending procession, piling onto one another with astonishing velocity. I was speaking in Spanish, not because I wanted to conceal anything, but because my explanation would not have made sense in their language. Arasuwe and the others listened as if they understood, as if they sensed my need to unburden myself of the turmoil within me.

I had realized that I was, after all, an outsider, and my demand to be informed of events not even the Iticoteri talked about among themselves was due to my feelings of self-importance. What had turned me into an intolerable individual was the thought of being left out- excluded from something I believed I had a right to know.

I had not questioned why I believed I had the right to know. It had made me miserable, blinding me to all the joyful moments I had so much cherished before. The gloom and oppressiveness I had felt was not outside, but within me; communicating itself to the shabono and its people.

I felt Arasuwe's calloused hand on my shaven tonsure. I did not feel ashamed of my feelings, but was glad to realize that it was up to me to restore the sense of magic and wonder at being in a different world.

"Blow epena in my nose," Arasuwe said to Etewa. "I want to make sure the evil spirits stay away from the white girl."

I heard murmuring, a rustling of voices, a soft laughter, then Arasuwe's monotonous chant. I fell into a peaceful sleep, the best I had had for days.

Little Texoma, who had not come into my hammock for days, awoke me at dawn. "I heard you laugh last night," she said, snuggling against me. "You had not laughed for so many days, I was afraid you would not laugh ever again."

I gazed into her bright eyes as it I might find in them the answer that would enable me in the future to laugh away all the anxiety and turmoils of my spirit.

An unusual stillness enshrouded the shabono as the shades of night closed in around us. The lulling touch of Tutemi's fingers as she searched my head for lice almost put me to sleep. The women's noisy chatter subsided to whispers as they went about preparing the evening meals and nursing their babies.

As if obeying an unspoken command, the children forsook their vociferous evening games, and gathered in Arasuwe's hut to listen to old Kamosiwe's tales. He seemed to be totally engrossed in his own words, gesturing dramatically with his hands as he talked. Yet his own eye was fixed intently on the long tubes of sweet potatoes sticking out from the embers. I watched in awe as the old man picked the roots out of the fire with his bare hand. Not waiting for the potatoes to cool, he crammed them into his mouth.

From where I sat I could see the waning moon appear over the treetops, obscured by the traveling clouds that shone white against the dark sky. The night stillness was pierced by an eerie sound- something between a scream and a growl. The next instant Etewa, his face and body painted black, materialized out of the shadows. He stood in front of the fires that had been lit in the clearing and clacked his bow and arrows high above his head. I did not see from which hut the others appeared, but eleven more men, their faces and bodies equally blackened, joined Etewa in the clearing.

Arasuwe pushed and pulled each of them until they all stood in a perfectly straight line, then, after positioning the last man in place, he joined them. The headman began to sing in a deep, nasal tone. The others repeated the last line of his song in a chorus. I could distinguish each separate voice in the murmured harmony, though I understood none of the words.

The longer they sang, the angrier the men seemed to become. At the end of each song, they let out the most ferocious screams I had ever heard. Oddly, I had the feeling that the louder they yelled, the more remote was their rage, as if it was no longer part of their black-painted bodies.

Abruptly they became silent. The faint light of the fires accentuated the wrathful expression on their rigid, mask-like faces; and the feverish glow in their eyes. I could not see if Arasuwe gave the command, but in unison they shouted, "How I will enjoy watching my arrow hit the enemy. How I will enjoy seeing his blood splash all over the ground."

Holding their weapons above their heads, the warriors broke the line, and gathered into a tight circle. They began to shout, first softly, then in such piercing voices that I felt a chill run down my spine.

They were silent once more, and Ritimi whispered in my ear that the men were listening to the echo of their screams so they could determine from which direction it came. The echoes, she explained, carried the spirits of the enemy.

Groaning, clacking their weapons, the men began to prance about the clearing. Arasuwe calmed them down. Two more times they gathered into a tight circle and shouted with all their might. Instead of walking into the forest, as I had expected and feared, the men moved toward the huts standing close to the entrance of the shabono. They lay down in the hammocks, and forced themselves to vomit.

"While they chanted, they devoured their enemies," she said. "Now they have to get rid of the rotten flesh."

I sighed with relief, yet I felt oddly disappointed that the raid had been acted out symbolically.

Shortly before dawn, I was awakened by the wailing of women. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not dreaming. As if no time had elapsed, the men stood outside in exactly the same straight formation they had assumed earlier in the night. Their cries had lost their fierceness, as if the wails of the women had dampened their wrath. They flung the plantain bundles, which had been stacked at the shabono's entrance, over their shoulders, then marched dramatically down the path leading to the river.

Old Kamosiwe and I followed the men at a distance. I thought it was raining, but it was only dew dripping from leaf to leaf. For a moment the men stood still, their shadows perfectly outlined against the light sand of the riverbank. The half-moon had traveled across the sky, shimmering faintly through the misty air.

As if the sand had sucked in their shadows, the men vanished before my eyes. All I heard was the sound of rustling leaves, of snapping branches receding into the forest. The mist closed in on us like an impenetrable wall, as though nothing had happened, as if all I had seen was only a dream.

Old Kamosiwe, sitting beside me on a rock, touched my arm lightly. "I no longer hear the echoes of their steps," he said, then slowly walked into the water. I followed him. I shivered with coldness. I felt the little fish that hide beneath the submerged roots brush against my legs, but I could not see them in the dark waters.

Old Kamosiwe giggled as I rubbed him dry with leaves. "Look at the sikomasik," he said rapturously, pointing to the white mushrooms growing on a rotten tree trunk.

I picked them up for him, wrapping them in leaves. When roasted over the fire, they were considered a delicacy, particularly by the old people.

Kamosiwe held the end of his broken bow toward me;

I pulled him up the slippery path leading to the shabono. The mist did not rise the whole day, as if the sun were afraid to witness the men's journey through the forest.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 5 - Chapter 21.

Little Texoma sat next to me on the log in the bamboo grass. "Are you not going to catch any frogs?" I asked her.

She looked at me woefully. Her eyes, usually so bright, were dull. Slowly they filled with tears.

"What makes you sad?" I asked, cradling her in my arms. Children were never left to cry for fear that their soul might escape through their mouths. Lifting her on my back, I headed toward the shabono. "You are as heavy as a basket full of ripe plantains," I said in an effort to make her laugh.

But the little girl did not even smile. Her face remained pressed against my neck; her tears rolled unchecked down my breasts. Carefully, I laid her down in her hammock. She clung to me tenaciously, forcing me to lie beside her. Soon she was asleep. It was not a peaceful sleep. From time to time her little body trembled as if she were in the throes of some dreadful nightmare.

With Tutemi's baby strapped to her back, Ritimi entered the hut. She began to cry as she looked at the sleeping child next to me. "I am sure one of the evil Mocototeri shapori has lured her soul away." Ritimi wept with such heartbreaking sobs, I left Texoma's hammock and sat next to her.

I did not know quite what to say. I was sure Ritimi was not only crying for her little daughter, but also for Etewa, who had been gone with the raiding party for almost a week. Since her husband's departure, she had not been her usual self. She had not worked in the gardens; neither had she accompanied any of the women to gather berries or wood in the forest.

Listless and dejected, she moped around the shabono. Most of the time she lay in her hammock, playing with Tutemi's baby. No matter what I did or said to cheer her up, I was unable to erase the forlorn expression on her face. The rueful little smile with which Ritimi responded to my efforts only made her look all the more despondent.

I put my arms around her neck and planted loud kisses on her cheek, reassuring her all the time that Texoma had nothing but a cold. Ritimi was not to be consoled. Weeping did not bring her any release or tire her out, but only intensified her distress.

"Maybe something has happened to Etewa," Ritimi said. "Maybe a Mocototeri has killed him."

"Nothing has happened to Etewa," I stated. "I can feel it in my legs."

Ritimi smiled slightly, as if doubting my words."But why is my little daughter sick?" she insisted.

"Texoma is sick because she got chilled playing in the swamps with the frogs," I stated matter-of-factly. "Children get sick very fast, and recuperate just as speedily."

"Are you sure that is the way it is?"

"Absolutely sure," I said.

Ritimi looked at me doubtfully, then said, "But none of the other children are sick. I know Texoma has been bewitched."

Not knowing how to answer, I suggested that it would be best to call Ritimi's uncle. Moments later I returned with Iramamowe. During his brother Arasuwe's absence, Iramamowe assumed the duties of a headman. His bravery made him the most qualified man to defend the shabono from potential raiders. His reputation as a shaman insured the settlement of protection against evil hekuras sent by enemy sorcerers.

Iramamowe looked at the child, then asked me to fetch his epena cane and the container with the hallucinogenic powder. He had a young man blow the snuff into his nose, then chanted to the hekuras, pacing up and down in front of the hut. From time to time he jumped high in the air, yelling at the evil spirits- which he believed had lodged in the child's body- to leave Texoma alone.

Gently Iramamowe massaged the child, starting with her head, down her chest, her stomach, all the way to her feet. He flicked his hands repeatedly, shaking off the evil hekuras he had drawn out of Texoma. Several other men took epena and chanted with Iramamowe throughout the night. He alternately massaged and sucked the disease from her little body.

However, the child was not any better the following day. Motionless, she lay in her hammock. Her eyes were red and swollen. She refused all food, including the water and honey I offered her.

Iramamowe diagnosed that her soul had wandered from her body and proceeded to build a platform with poles and lianas in the middle of the clearing. He fastened assai palm leaves in his hair. He drew circles around his eyes and mouth with a mixture of onoto and coals. Prancing around the platform, he imitated the cries of the harpy eagle. With a branch from one of the bushes growing around the shabono he swept the ground thoroughly in an effort to locate the wandering soul of the child.

Unable to find the soul, he gathered several of Texoma's playmates around him. He decorated their hair and faces the same as his, then lifted them onto the platform. "Examine the ground from above," he told the children. "Find your sister's soul."

Imitating the cries of the harpy eagle, the children jumped up and down on the precariously built structure. They swept the air with the branches the women had handed them; but they too were unable to catch the lost soul.

Taking the branch Ritimi gave me, I joined the others in the quest. We swept the paths leading to the river, to the gardens, and to the swamps, where Texoma had been catching frogs. Iramamowe exchanged his branch for mine. "You carried her to the shabono," he said. "Maybe you can find her soul."

Without any thoughts as to the futility of the task, I swept the ground with the same eagerness as the others. "How does one know the soul is nearby?" I asked Iramamowe as we retraced our steps back to the shabono.

"One just knows," he said.

We searched in every hut, sweeping under hammocks, around each hearth, and behind stacks of plantains. We lifted baskets from the ground. We moved bows and arrows leaning against the sloping roof. We scared spiders and scorpions out of their nests in the thatched roof. I gave up the hunt when I saw a snake slithering from behind one of the rafters.

Laughing, old Hayama cut the reptile's head off with one swift blow of Iramamowe's machete. She wrapped the still wriggling, headless snake in pishaansi leaves, then placed it on the fire. Hayama also collected the spiders falling on the ground. These too were wrapped in leaves and roasted. Old people were particularly fond of the soft bellies. The legs Hayama saved, to be ground later. The powder was believed to heal cuts, bites, and scratches.

By dusk little Texoma showed no signs of improvement. Motionless, she lay in her hammock, her eyes staring vacantly at the thatched roof. I was filled with an indescribable sense of helplessness as Iramamowe once again bent over the child to massage and suck out the evil spirits.

"Let me try to cure the child," I said.

Iramamowe smiled almost imperceptibly, focusing his gaze alternately on me and Texoma. "What makes you think you can cure my grand-niece?" he asked with deliberate thoughtfulness. There was no mockery in his tone- only a vague curiosity. "We have not found her soul. A powerful enemy shapori has lured it away. Do you think you can counteract an evil sorcerer's curse?"

"No," I hastily assured him. "Only you can do that."

"What will you do then?" he asked. "You said once that you never cured anyone. What makes you think you can now?"

"I will help Texoma with hot water," I said. "And you will cure her with your chants to the hekuras."

Iramamowe deliberated for a moment. Gradually his thoughtful expression relaxed. He held his hand over his mouth as if he were hiding an urge to giggle. "Did you learn much from the shapori you knew?"

"I remember some of the ways they cured," I answered, but did not mention that the cure I intended for Texoma was my grandmother's way of dealing with a fever that had not broken. "You said you have seen hekuras in my eyes. If you chant to them, maybe they will help me."

An easy smile came and lingered around Iramamowe's lips. He seemed almost convinced by my reasoning. Yet he shook his head as if full of doubt. "Curing is not done this way. How can I ask the hekuras to help you? Will you also want to take epena?"

"I will not need to take the snuff," I assured him, then remarked that if a powerful shapori could command his hekuras to steal the soul of a child, then an accomplished sorcerer like himself could certainly command his spirits, which according to him were already acquainted with me, to come to my aid.

"I will call the hekuras to assist you," Iramamowe declared. "I will take epena for you."

While one of the men blew the hallucinogenic substance into Iramamowe's nostrils, Ritimi, Tutemi, and Arasuwe's wives brought me calabashes filled with hot water that old Hayama had heated in the large aluminum pots. I soaked my cut-up blanket in the hot water and, using the legs of my jeans as gloves, I wrung each thin strip of cloth until not a drop of moisture was to be squeezed out. Carefully, I wrapped them around Texoma's body, then covered her with the heated palm fronds some of the older boys had cut for me.

I could hardly move among the crowd gathered in the hut. Silently they watched my every motion, intent and alert, so as not to miss anything. Iramamowe squatted beside me, chanting tirelessly into the night. As the hours passed, the people retired to their hammocks. I was not put off by their show of disapproval, but kept changing the compresses as soon as they cooled off. Ritimi sat silently in her hammock, her interlaced fingers resting limply on her lap in an attitude of supreme hopelessness. Whenever she glanced at me she broke into tears.

Texoma seemed oblivious to my ministrations. What if she had something other than a cold? I thought. What if she got worse? My assurance faltered. I mumbled a prayer for her with a fervor I had not had since I was a child. Looking up, I noticed Iramamowe gazing at me. He seemed anxious, as if aware of the mixture of feelings- magic, religion, and fear- fighting inside me. Determinedly, he went on chanting.

Old Kamosiwe came and joined us. He squatted close to the hearth. The cold of dawn had not yet crept into the hut, but the mere fact that there was a fire made him huddle over it instinctively. Softly, he began to chant. His murmured song filled me with comfort. It seemed to carry the voices of past generations. The rain prattled on the thatched roof with a determined vigor, then relaxed into a light drizzle that plunged me into a kind of stupor.

It was almost dawn when Texoma began tossing in her hammock. Impatiently she tore at the wet pieces of blanket, at the palm fronds wrapped around her. With eyes opened wide in surprise, she sat up, then smiled at old Kamosiwe, Iramamowe, and myself crouching beside her hammock. "I am thirsty," she said, then gulped down the water and honey I gave her.

"Will she be well?" Ritimi asked hesitantly.

"Iramamowe lured her soul back," I said. "The hot water has broken her fever. Now she needs to be kept warm and sleep peacefully."

I walked into the clearing, and stretched my cramped legs. Old Kamosiwe, leaning against a pole, looked like a child with his forearms tightly wrapped around his chest to keep warm. Iramamowe stopped beside me on the way to his hut. We did not talk, but I was certain we shared a moment of absolute understanding.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 5 - Chapter 22.

At the sound of approaching steps, Tutemi motioned me to lower myself beside the moldy leaves of the squash vines. "It is the raiding party," she whispered. "Women are not supposed to see from which direction the warriors return."

Unable to curb my curiosity, I slowly stood up. There were three women with the men. One of them was pregnant.

"Do not look," Tutemi pleaded, pulling me down. "If you see the path on which the raiders return, the enemy will capture you."

"How beautiful the men look with the bright feathers streaming from their armbands, and the onoto designs on their bodies," I said. "But Etewa is missing! Do you think he has been killed?" I asked in dismay.

Tutemi looked at me, a dazed expression on her face. There was no nervousness in her movements as she separated the large squash leaves to peek at the retreating figures. Her anxious face beamed with a smile as she grabbed my arm. "Look, there is Etewa." She pulled my head close to hers so I could see where she was pointing. "He is unucai."

Trailing a distance behind the others, Etewa walked slowly, with his shoulders hunched forward as if he were burdened by a heavy weight on his back. He was not adorned with feathers or paint. Only short little sticks of arrow cane were stuck through his pierced earlobes and one arrow cane stick was tied to each wrist like a bracelet.

"Is he ill?"

"No! He is unucai," she said admiringly. "He has killed a Mocototeri."

Unable to share Tutemi's excitement, I could only stare at her in dumb incredulity. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and turned my gaze away from her. We waited until Etewa was out of sight, then slowly headed toward the shabono.

Tutemi quickened her pace upon hearing the welcoming shouts from the men and women in the huts. Surrounded by the exultant Iticoteri, the raiders stood proudly in the clearing. Turning away from her husband, Arasuwe's youngest wife approached the three captive women, who had not been included in the jubilant greetings. Silently they stood apart, their apprehensive gazes fixed on the approaching Iticoteri woman.

"Painted with onoto- how disgusting," Arasuwe's wife yelled. "What else can one expect from a Mocototeri woman? Do you think you have been invited to a feast?" Glaring at the three women, she picked up a stick. "I will beat you all. If I had been captured, I would have run away," she shouted.

The three Mocototeri huddled closer to each other.

"At least I would have arrived crying pitifully," Arasuwe's wife hissed, pulling the hair of one of the women.

Arasuwe stepped in between his wife and the Mocototeri. "Leave them alone. They have cried so much they have soaked the path with their tears. We made them stop. We did not want to listen to their wails." Arasuwe took the stick away from his wife. "We demanded they paint their faces and bodies with onoto. These women will be happy here. They will be treated well!" He turned to the rest of the Iticoteri women who had gathered around his wife. "Give them something to eat. They are hungry like us. We have not eaten for two days."

Arasuwe's wife was not intimidated. "Were your men killed?" she asked the three women. "Did you burn them? Have you eaten their ashes?" She faced the pregnant woman. "Was your husband also killed? Do you expect an Iticoteri man to become a father to your child?"

Pushing his wife roughly away, Arasuwe announced, "Only one man was killed. He was shot by Etewa's arrow. He was the man who killed Etewa's father the last time the Mocototeri raided us so treacherously." Arasuwe turned to the pregnant woman. There was no sympathy in his eyes or in his voice as he continued, "You were captured by the Mocototeri some time ago. You have no brothers among them who will rescue you. You are now an Iticoteri. Do not cry any longer." Arasuwe went on to explain to the three captives that they would be better off with his people. The Iticoteri, he stressed, had enjoyed meat almost every day as well as plenty of roots and plantains throughout the rainy season. No one had gone hungry.

One of the captives was only a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old. "What will happen to her?" I asked Tutemi.

"Like the others, she will be taken as a wife," Tutemi said. "I was probably her age when I was abducted by the Iticoteri." A wistful little smile curved her lips. "I was lucky Ritimi's mother-in-law chose me as a second wife for Etewa. He has never beaten me. Ritimi treats me like a sister. She does not quarrel with me, nor does she make me work too..." Tutemi broke in mid-sentence as Arasuwe's youngest wife resumed her shouting at the Mocototeri women.

"How disgusting to come all painted. All you need is to stick flowers in your ears and start to dance." She followed the three women into her husband's hut. "Did the men rape you in the forest? Is that why you stayed away so long? You must have enjoyed it." Pushing the pregnant woman, she added, "Did they also sleep with you?"

"Shut up!" Arasuwe yelled, "or I will beat you till I draw blood." Arasuwe turned to the women who had followed behind. "You should rejoice that your men have returned unharmed. You should be content that Etewa has killed a man, that we have brought three captives. Go to your huts and prepare food for your men."

Grumbling, the women dispersed to their respective hearths.

"Why is only Arasuwe's wife so upset?" I asked Tutemi.

"Do you not know?" she asked, smiling maliciously. "She is afraid he will take one of the women as his fourth wife."

"Why does he want so many?"

"He is powerful," Tutemi stated categorically. "He has many sons-in-law who bring plenty of game and help him work in the gardens. Arasuwe can feed many women."

"Were the captives raped?" I asked.

"One was." Tutemi was momentarily puzzled by my shocked expression, then went on to explain that a captured woman was usually raped by all the men in the raiding party. "It is the custom."

"Did they also rape the young girl?"

"No," Tutemi said casually. "She is not yet a woman. Neither did they rape the pregnant one- they are never touched."

Ritimi had remained in her hammock throughout the whole commotion. She told me she had no reason to get worked up about the Mocototeri women, for she knew Etewa would not take a third wife. I was happy to notice that her sadness and dejection, which had been so much a part of her during the last few days, had vanished.

"Where is Etewa?" I asked. "Is he not coming to the shabono"

Ritimi's eyes appeared almost feverish with excitement as she explained that her husband, since he had killed an enemy, was searching for a tree not too far from the settlement on which he could hang his old hammock and quiver. However, before he could do so, he had to strip the tree's trunk and branches of its bark.

Ritimi's eyes expressed a deep concern as she faced me. She warned me against gazing at such a tree. She was certain I would not confuse it with the kind that is stripped of its bark to make troughs and canoes. Those trees, she explained, still looked like trees. Whereas the ones stripped by a man who has killed looked like a ghostly shadow, all white among the greenness around them, with hammock and quiver, bow, and arrows dangling from the peeled branches. Spirits- evil ones in particular- liked hiding in the vicinity of such places. I had to promise Ritimi that if I ever found myself in the neighborhood of such a tree, I would run from the spot as fast as possible.

In a voice so low I thought she was talking to herself, Ritimi confided her fears to me. She hoped Etewa would not collapse under the weight of the man he had killed. The hekuras of a slain man lodge themselves in the killer's chest, where they remain until the dead man's relatives have burned the body and eaten the pulverized bones. The Mocototeri would postpone for as long as possible the burning of the body in the hope that Etewa would die from weakness.

"Will the men talk about the raid?" I asked.

"As soon as they have eaten," Ritimi said.

With his bow and arrows in hand, Etewa walked across the clearing toward the hut where Iramamowe's son had been initiated as a shaman. The men who had been with Etewa on the raid covered the sides of the hut with palm fronds. Only a small entrance was left open at the front. They brought him a water-filled calabash and built a fire inside.

Etewa was to remain in the hut until Puriwariwe would announce that the dead Mocototeri had been burned. Day and night Etewa had to be on the alert in case the dead man's spirit came prowling about the hut in the form of a jaguar. Were Etewa to talk, touch a woman, or eat during those days, he would die.

Old Hayama, accompanied by her daughter-in-law, came into our hut. "I want to find out what is going on at Arasuwe's place," the old woman said, sitting beside me. Xotomi sat on the ground, reclining her head against my legs, dangling from my hammock. A purple scar- a reminder of the arrow wound- marred the smooth line of her calf. That did not worry Xotomi. She was grateful the wound had not become infected.

"Matuwe caught one of the women," Hayama said proudly. "It is a good time for him to get another wife. I had better select the right one for him. I am sure he will make a mistake if it is left up to him to make the choice."

"But he has a wife," I stammered, looking at Xotomi.

"Yes," the old woman agreed. "But if he is to have a second wife, this is the best time. Xotomi is young. It will be easy for her to be friends with another woman now. Matuwe should take the youngest of the three captives." Hayama brushed her hand over Xotomi's shaven tonsure. "The girl is younger than you. She will obey you. If you menstruate, she can cook for us. She can help you in the gardens and with the gathering of wood. I am getting too old to work much."

Xotomi examined the three Mocototeri women in Arasuwe's hut. "If Matuwe is to take another wife, I wish him to take the young girl. I will like her. She can warm his hammock when I am pregnant."

"Are you?" I asked.

"I am not certain," she said, smiling smugly.

Hayama had told me some time ago that a pregnant woman usually waited three to four months, sometimes even longer, before telling her husband of her state. The man was a tacit accomplice in this deception, for he also dreaded the restrictive food and behavior taboos. Whenever a woman suffered a miscarriage or gave birth to a deformed child, she was never at fault. It was the husband who was always blamed. In fact, if a woman repeatedly bore a sickly infant, she was encouraged to conceive by another man. Her own husband, however, had to obey the taboos and raise the baby as his own.

Hayama went over to Arasuwe's hut. "I will take this Mocototeri girl with me. She will make a fine wife for my son," she said, taking the girl by the hand. "She will live with me in my hut."

"I captured a woman," Matuwe said. "I do not want this child. She is too thin. I want a strong woman who will bear healthy sons."

"She will grow strong," Hayama said calmly. "She is still green, but soon she will be ripe. Look at her breasts. They are already large. Besides," she added, "Xotomi will not mind it you take her." Hayama faced the men gathered inside and outside Arasuwe's hut. "No one is to touch her. I will take care of her until she becomes my Son's wife. From today on she is my daughter-in-law."

No objections were raised by the men as Hayama took the girl into our hut. Shyly, the Mocototeri sat on the ground, close to the hearth. "I will not beat you," Xotomi said, taking the girl's hand in hers. "But you must do what I tell you."

Matuwe grinned sheepishly at us across the hut. I wondered if he was proud to have two wives, or actually embarrassed to be forced into taking a child when he had captured a woman.

"What will happen to the other captives?" I asked.

"Arasuwe will take the pregnant one," Hayama declared.

"How do you know?" Without waiting for her answer, I asked about the third one.

"She will be given to someone as a wife after she has been taken by any of the men in the shabono who wish to do so," Hayama said.

"But she has already been raped by the raiders," I said indignantly.

Old Hayama burst into laughter. "But not by the men who did not participate in the raid." The old woman patted my head. "Do not look so stricken. It is the custom. I was captured once. I was raped by many men. I was lucky and found a chance to escape. No, do not interrupt me, white girl," Hayama said, putting her hand over my mouth. "I did not run away because I had been raped. I forgot that very fast. I escaped because I had to work too hard and was not given enough food."

As the old woman had predicted, Arasuwe took the pregnant woman for himself.

"You have three wives already," the youngest one shouted, her face contorted in anger. "Why do you want another one?"

Giggling nervously, Arasuwe's two other wives watched from their hammocks as the youngest pushed the pregnant woman on the burning coals of the hearth. Arasuwe jumped out of his hammock, took a burning log from the fire, and handed it to the fallen Mocototeri woman. "Burn my wife's arm," he urged the Mocototeri woman as he held his youngest wife pinned against one of the poles in the hut. Sobbing, the pregnant woman covered her burned shoulder with her hand.

"Burn me!" Arasuwe's wife dared her, twisting away from her husband's grip. "If you do, I will burn you alive- but no one will eat your bones. I shall scatter them in the forest, so we can piss on them..." She stopped, her eyes widened in genuine astonishment as she discovered the extent of the woman's injured shoulder. "You are really burnt! Does it hurt much?"

Looking up, the Mocototeri wiped the tears from her face. "I am in great pain."

"Oh, you poor woman." Solicitously, Arasuwe's wife helped her to stand up, guiding her over to her own hammock. She took leaves from a calabash and gently placed them on the woman's shoulder. "It will heal very fast. I will make sure of it."

"Do not weep any longer," Arasuwe's oldest wife said, sitting next to the Mocototeri woman. She patted her leg affectionately. "Our husband is a good man. He will treat you well. I will make sure no one in the shabono mistreats you."

"What will happen when the baby is born?" I asked Hayama.

"That is hard to say," the old woman conceded. She remained quiet for a moment as if deep in thought. "She may kill it. Yet it it is a boy Arasuwe might ask his oldest wife to raise him as if it were his own."

Hours later, Arasuwe began his tale about the events of the raid. He talked in a slow, nasal tone. "We traveled slowly the first day and stopped to rest often. Our backs ached from the heavy loads of plantains. That first night we hardly slept, for we did not have enough firewood to keep warm. The rain fell with such force the night sky seemed to melt with the darkness around us. The following day we walked somewhat faster, arriving in the vicinity of the Mocototeri settlement. We were still far enough away that the enemy hunters would not discover our presence that night, yet close enough that we did not dare light a fire in our camp."

I could only see Arasuwe's face in profile. Fascinated, I watched the red and black designs on his cheeks moving animatedly with the rhythm of his speech, as if they had a life of their own. The feathers in his earlobes added a softness to his stern, tired face, a playfulness that belied the horror of his tale.

"For a few days we carefully watched the comings and goings of our enemy. Our aim was to kill a Mocototeri without alarming their shabono of our presence. One morning we saw the man who had killed Etewa's father walk into the thicket after a woman. Etewa shot him in the stomach with one of his poisoned arrows. The man was so dazed he did not even shout. By the time he recovered from his surprise, Etewa had shot a second arrow in his stomach and another in his neck, right behind his ear. He fell on the ground, dead.

"Walking like a stunned man, Etewa headed home, accompanied by my nephew. Meanwhile Matuwe had found the woman hiding in the thicket. He threatened to kill her if she so much as opened her mouth to cough. Matuwe, together with my youngest son-in-law, headed toward our settlement with the reluctant woman. We were all to meet later at a predetermined location.

As the rest of us were deciding whether to split into even smaller groups, we saw a mother with her little son, a pregnant woman, and a young girl, all heading into the forest. We could not resist the temptation. Quietly, we followed them." Leaning back in his hammock, hands locked behind his head, Arasuwe regarded his spellbound audience.

Taking advantage of the headman's pause, one of the men who had been on the raid stood up. Motioning the people to make space for him to move, he opened his narration with exactly the same words Arasuwe used. "We traveled slowly the first day."

But that was all his and the headman's narratives had in common. Gesticulating a great deal, the man mimicked with exaggerated flare the moods and expressions of different members of the raiding party, thus adding a touch of humor and melodrama to Arasuwe's dry, matter-of-fact rendition.

Encouraged by his audience's laughter and cheers, the man told at great length about the two youngest members of the raiding party. They were no older than sixteen or seventeen. Not only had they complained of sore feet, the cold, and their aches and pains, but they had been afraid of prowling jaguars and spirits on the second night when they had all slept without lighting a fire. The man interspersed his account with detailed information on the variety of game and ripening wild fruit- color, size, and shape- he had spotted on the way.

Arasuwe resumed his own report as soon as the man paused. "When the three women and the girl were far enough from the shabono," the headman continued, "we threatened to shoot them if they tried to run away or scream. The small boy managed to sneak into the bushes. We did not pursue him, but retreated as fast as possible, making sure not to leave footprints behind. We were sure that as soon as the Mocototeri discovered the dead man they would follow us.

"Just before dusk, the mother of the boy who had sneaked away cried out in pain. Sitting on the ground, she pressed her foot between her hands. She wept bitterly, complaining that a poisonous snake had bitten her. Her heartbreaking wails saddened us so much we did not even make sure there had been a snake. 'What good has it been,' she sobbed, 'for my little son to run away if he no longer has a mother to take care of him?' Screaming that she could not bear the pain any longer, the woman hobbled into the bushes. It took us a moment to realize we had been tricked. We searched the forest thoroughly, but we could not discover in which direction she had fled."

Old Kamosiwe laughed heartily. "It is good that she tricked you. It never pays to abduct a woman who has left behind a small child. They cry until they become ill and, worse. They almost always escape."

The men talked until the rainy dawn enshrouded the shabono. In the middle of the clearing stood the solitary hut where Etewa was enclosed. It was so quiet and apart- so close, yet so far removed from the voices and laughter.

A week later, Puriwariwe visited Etewa. As soon as he had eaten a baked plantain and honey, the old man asked Iramamowe to blow epena into his head. Chanting, Puriwariwe danced around Etewa's hut. "The dead man has not yet been burned," he announced. "His body has been placed in a trough. It is rotting high up in a tree. Do not break your silence yet. The hekuras of the dead man are still in your chest. Prepare your new arrows and bow. Soon the Mocototeri will burn the rotting flesh for the worms are already crawling out of the carcass." The old shapori circled Etewa's hut once more, then danced across the clearing into the forest.

Three days later, Puriwariwe announced that the Mocototeri had burned the dead man. "Take out the sticks from your earlobes, untie the ones from your wrists," he said, helping Etewa stand up. "In a few days take your old bow and arrows to the same peeled tree on which you hung your hammock and quiver."

Puriwariwe led Etewa into the forest. Arasuwe, together with some of the men who had been on the raid, followed behind.

They returned in the late afternoon. Etewa's hair had been cut, his tonsure shaven. His body had been washed and painted afresh with onoto. Cane rods, decorated with red macaw feathers, had been inserted in his earlobes. He also wore the new fur armbands, adorned with feathers, and the thick cotton waist belt Ritimi had made for him. Arasuwe offered Etewa a basket full of tiny fish he had cooked for him in pishaansi leaves.

Three days later, Etewa ventured for the first time by himself into the forest. "I have shot a monkey," he announced hours later, standing in the clearing. As soon as a group of men had gathered around him, he gave them precise information as to where the animal could be found.

To insure the aid and protection of the hekuras during future hunts, Etewa went two more times by himself into the forest. On each occasion he returned without the kill, then informed others where they could locate it. Etewa did not eat of the monkey and the two peccaries he had shot.

One afternoon he returned with a curassow hung from his back. He scalped the bird, saving the strip of skin where the curly black feathers were attached. It would serve as an armband. The wing feathers he saved for feathering his arrows. He cooked the almost two-foot-long bird on a wooden platform he had built over the fire. Tasting to see if the curassow was done thoroughly, he then proceeded to divide it between his children and two wives.

"Is the white girl your child or your wife?" old Hayama shouted from her hut as Etewa handed me a piece of the dark breast meat.

"She is my mother," Etewa said, joining the laughing Iticoteri.

Days later, Arasuwe supervised the cooking of plantain pap. Etewa emptied a small gourd into the soup. Ritimi told me they were the last of the powdered bones of Etewa's father. Tears rolled down the men's and women's cheeks as they swallowed the thick soup. I took the calabash ladle Etewa offered me and cried for his dead father.

As soon as the trough was empty, Arasuwe shouted at the top of his voice, "What a waiter! man we have amongst us. He has killed his enemy. He has carried the dead man's hekuras in his chest without succumbing to hunger or loneliness during his confinement."

Etewa walked around the clearing. "Yes, I am waiteri," he sang. "The hekuras of a dead man can kill the strongest warrior. It is a heavy burden to carry them for so many days. A person can die of sorrow." Etewa began to dance. "I no longer think about the man I killed. I dance with the shadows of the night, not with the shadows of death." The longer he danced, the lighter and faster his steps became, as though through the movements he was finally able to shake off the burden he had borne in his chest.

Many an evening the events of the raid were retold by the men. Even old Kamosiwe had a version. All the stories had in common with the original one was that Etewa had killed a man, that three women had been captured. In time only a vague memory of the actual facts remained, and it became a tale of the distant past like all the other stories the Iticoteri were so fond of telling.