Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 6 - Chapter 23.

As if only a moment had passed, the memories of the bygone days, weeks, and months drifted through my mind in vivid detail.

The pressure of tiny feet kneading on my stomach woke me from my reveries. Words of protest died on my lips as Tutemi lowered Hoaxiwe on top of me. I cradled the baby in my arms, lest he awaken little Texoma who had fallen asleep in my hammock while waiting for me to get up. I reached for Hoaxiwe's frog skulls threaded on a liana string hanging at the head of my hammock and rattled them in front of him. Gurgling with delight, the baby tried to reach them.

"Are you awake?" Texoma mumbled, touching my cheek lightly. "I thought you were going to sleep the whole day."

"I have been thinking about all I have seen and learned since I first came here," I said, taking her small hand in mine. Her narrow palm, and her long, delicately shaped fingers were oddly mature for a five-year-old child, and contrasted sharply with her dimpled face. "I did not realize the sun's already up."

"You did not even notice my brother and cousins leaving your hammock as soon as the plantains were baked," Texoma said. "Were you thinking very hard?"

"No," I laughed. "It was more like dreaming. It seems as if no time has passed since the day I arrived at the shabono."

"To me it is like a long time," Texoma said seriously, caressing her half-brother's soft hair. "When you first arrived, this tiny baby was still sleeping inside Tutemi's belly. I remember well the day my mothers found you." Giggling, the little girl buried her face in my neck. "I know why you wept that day. You were afraid of my great-uncle Iramamowe- he has an ugly face."

"That day," I whispered conspiringly, "I was afraid of all the Iticoteri." Feeling a warm wetness on my stomach, I held Hoaxiwe away from me. Etewa, sitting astride his hammock, smiled in amusement as he watched the arc of his son's urine spanning over the fire.

"Of all of us?" Texoma asked. "Even of my father and grandfather? Even of my mothers and old Hayama?" Bending over my face, she gazed at me with an expression of incredulity, almost of anguish, as if she were searching for something in my eyes. "Were you also afraid of me?"

"No. I was not afraid of you," I assured her, bouncing the laughing Hoaxiwe on my thighs.

"I was not afraid of you either." Sighing with relief, Texoma lay back in the hammock. "I did not hide like most of the children did when you first walked into our hut. We had heard that whites were tall and hairy like monkeys. But you looked so little, I knew you could not be a real white."

As soon as her basket was securely fastened to her back, Tutemi lifted her baby from my lap. Expertly she placed him in the wide, softened-bark sling she wore across her chest. "Ready," she said, smiling, then looked questioningly at Etewa and Ritimi.

Grinning, Etewa picked up his machete and his bow and arrows.

"Will you come later?" Ritimi asked me as she adjusted the long, slender rod stuck through the septum of her nose. The corners of her mouth, free of the usual smooth sticks, turned up in a smile, dimpling her cheeks. As if sensing my indecision, Ritimi did not wait for my reply but followed her husband and Tutemi to the gardens.

"Hayama is coming," Tutemi whispered. "She is wondering why you have not come to eat her baked plantain." The little girl slid from the hammock, and ran toward a group of children playing outside.

Muttering, Hayama walked through Tutemi's hut. Her loose skin hung in long vertical wrinkles down her thighs and belly. Her face was set in a stern mien as she handed me a half-gourd filled with plantain mush. Sighing, she sat in Ritimi's hammock, letting her hand trail along the ground as she rocked herself to and fro, apparently entranced by the rhythmic squeaking of the liana knot against the pole. "It is too bad I have not been able to fatten you up," the old woman said after a long silence.

I assured her that her plantains had worked wonders- that given a bit more time I might even become fat.

"There is not much time," Hayama said softly. "You are leaving for the mission."

"What?" I cried, struck by the definiteness of her tone. "Who says so?"

"Before he left, Milagros made Arasuwe promise that if we were to move to one of our old gardens deeper in the forest, we were not to take you." The nostalgic, almost dreamy gaze of her eyes softened Hayama's expression as she reminded me of the various families who several weeks before had left for the old gardens. Believing they were to return soon, I had not paid much attention to their departure at the time. Hayama went on to explain that Arasuwe's household, as well as those of his brothers, cousins, sons, and daughters, had not yet followed the others for the simple reason that the headman was waiting to hear from Milagros.

"Is the shabono going to be abandoned?" I asked. "What about the gardens here? They were only recently expanded. What will happen to all the new plantain shoots?" I said excitedly.

"They will grow." Hayama's face crinkled with cheerful amusement. "The old people and many of the children will remain here. We will build temporary shelters close to the plantain patches, for no one likes to live in ancillary shabono. We will take care of the gardens until the others return. By then the bananas and rasha fruit will be ripe and once again it will be time to feast."

"But why are so many Iticoteri leaving?" I asked. "Is there not enough food here?"

Hayama did not actually say that there was a food shortage, yet she stressed the fact that old gardens, which have not been visited for a long time, become a feeding ground for monkeys, birds, agouti, peccary, and tapir. Men have an easy time hunting and the women still find plenty of roots and fruits in such gardens to last until the game has been exhausted. "Besides," Hayama went on, "a temporary move is always good, especially after a raid. If I were not too old, I would also go."

"Like a holiday," I said.

"Yes. A holiday!" Hayama laughed, once I explained what was meant by the word. "Oh, how much I would like to go and sit in the shade, stuffing myself with kafu fruit."

Kafu trees were prized for their bark and bast fibers. The clusters of fruit, each about ten inches long, hang on a common stalk. The gelatinous, fleshy fruit is filled with tiny seeds and tastes like an overripe fresh fig.

"If I can not move with Arasuwe and his family to the old gardens," I said, squatting at the head of Hayama's hammock, "then I will stay here with you. There is no reason for me to return to the mission. We will await the return of the others together."

Hayama's eyes shone with an unnatural brightness as they rested on my face. In a slow, deliberate tone, she made it clear that, although it was not customary to raid an empty shabono or to kill old people and children, the Mocototeri would undoubtedly make trouble if they were to learn, which the old woman assured me they would, that I had been left behind in an unprotected settlement.

I shuddered, remembering how several weeks before a group of Mocototeri men, armed with clubs, had arrived at the shabono demanding the return of their women. After both groups had shouted threats and insults at each other, Arasuwe told the Mocototeri that he had purposely freed one of the abducted women on his way home. He stressed the fact that not for an instant had he been taken in by the woman's trick of having been bitten by a snake. However, after more bickering on both sides, the headman reluctantly handed over the girl old Hayama had chosen as a second wife for her youngest son. Threatening to retaliate at a later date, the Mocototeri left.

It was Etewa who had explained to me that although the Mocototeri had had no intention of starting a shooting war- they had left their bows and arrows hidden in the forest- the headman had acted wisely in returning the girl so promptly. The Iticoteri were outnumbered, as several men had already left for the abandoned gardens.

"When will Arasuwe join the others in the old gardens?" I asked Hayama.

"Very soon," she said. "Arasuwe has sent several men to find Milagros. Unfortunately, they have been unable to get in touch with him so far."

I smiled to myself. "It seems that regardless of what Arasuwe promised, I will end up going with Ritimi and Etewa," I said smugly.

"You will not," Hayama assured me, then grinned maliciously. "It is not only from the Mocototeri we have to protect you, but a shapori might abduct you on the way to the gardens, and keep you as his woman in a faraway hut."

"I doubt it," I said, giggling. "You told me once that no man would want me this skinny." I told the old woman about the incident in the mountains with Etewa.

Pressing her folded arms across her hanging bosom, Hayama laughed until tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. "Etewa would take any woman that is available," she said. "But he is afraid of you." Hayama leaned over her hammock, then whispered, "A shapori is not an ordinary man. He would not want you for his pleasure. A shapori needs the femaleness in his body." She lay back in the hammock. "Do you know where that femaleness is?"

"No."

The old woman looked at me as if she thought I was slow-witted. "In the vagina," she finally said, almost choking on her laughter.

"Do you think that Puriwariwe might abduct me?" I asked mockingly. "I am sure that he is too old to care about women."

Genuine amazement widened her eyes. "Have you not seen? Has nobody told you that that old shapori is stronger than any man in the shabono?" she asked. "There are nights when that old man goes from hut to hut, sticking his cock inside every woman he can find. And he does not get tired. At dawn, when he returns to the forest, he is as ready as ever." Hayama assured me that Puriwariwe could not possibly abduct me, for he no longer needed anything. She warned me, however, that there were other shamans, less powerful than the old man, who might.

Closing her eyes, she sighed loudly. I thought she had fallen asleep, but, as if sensing my motion to get up, the old woman turned to me abruptly. She placed both her hands on my shoulders, then asked me in a voice that shook with emotion, "Do you know why you like being with us?"

I looked at her uncomprehendingly, and as I opened my mouth to respond Hayama went on to say, "You are happy here because you have no responsibilities. You live like us. You have learned to speak quite well, and know many of our customs. To us you are neither child or adult, man or woman. We make no demands on you. If we did, you would resent it." Hayama's eyes were so dark as they held my gaze, they made me uncomfortable. In her wrinkled face they seemed too large and bright, as if glowing with an inexhaustible inner energy. After a long pause, she added provokingly, "Were you to become a woman shapori, you would be very unhappy."

I felt threatened. Yet, as I stammered inanities to defend myself, I suddenly realized that she was right and I was seized by a desperate desire to laugh.

Gently the old woman pressed her fingers over my lips. "There are powerful shapori living in remote places where the hekuras of animals and plants dwell," Hayama said. "In the dark of night, those men consort with beautiful female spirits."

"I am glad I am not a beautiful spirit," I said.

"No. You are not beautiful." Hayama with her cajoling laugh and mocking gaze made it impossible for me to take offense at her uncomplimentary remark. "Yet to many of us you are strange." There was great tenderness in her voice as she tried to make me understand why the Mocototeri wanted to take me to their shabono. Their interest in me was not due to the usual reasons Indians befriend whites- to get machetes, cooking pots, and clothes- but because the Mocototeri believed I had powers. They had heard of how I had cured little Texoma, about the epena incident, and how Iramamowe had seen hekuras reflected in my eyes. They had even seen me use a bow and arrow.

All my endeavors to make the old woman realize that it required no special powers, only common sense, to help a child with a cold were in vain. I argued that even she herself could be considered to have healing powers- she set bones and smeared secret concoctions made from animal parts, roots, and leaves on bites, scratches, and cuts. But my reasonings were futile. To her there was a vast difference between setting a bone, and coaxing the lost soul of a child back into its body. That, she stressed, only a shapori could do.

"But Iramamowe brought her soul back," I asserted. "I only cured her cold."

"He did not," Hayama insisted. "He heard you chant."

"That was a prayer," I said feebly, realizing that a prayer was in no way different from Iramamowe's hekura chants.

"I know whites are not like us," Hayama interrupted me, determined to prevent me from arguing further. "I am talking about something different altogether. Had you been born an Iticoteri, you would still be different from Ritimi, Tutemi, or me." Hayama touched my face, running her long, bony fingers over my forehead and cheeks. "My sister Angelica would never have asked you to accompany her into the forest. Milagros would never have brought you to stay with us if you were like the whites he knows." She regarded me thoughtfully, then, as if struck with an afterthought, added, "I wonder if any other whites would have been as happy as you have been with us."

"I am sure they would have," I said softly. "There are not many whites who have a chance to come here."

Hayama shrugged her shoulders. "Do you remember the story about Imawaami, the woman shapori?" she asked.

"That is a myth!" Afraid that the old woman was trying to make some connection between Imawaami and myself, I hastily added, "It is like the story of the bird who stole the first fire from the alligator's mouth."

"Maybe," Hayama said dreamily. "Lately, I have been thinking about the stories my father, grandfather, and even my great-grandfather used to tell about the white men they had seen traveling along the big rivers. There must have been whites journeying through the forest long before my great-grandfather's time. Perhaps Imawaami was one of them." Hayama moved her eager face close to mine, then continued in a whisper. "It must have been a shapori who captured her, believing the white woman was a beautiful spirit. But she was more powerful than the shapori. She stole his hekuras and became a sorceress herself." Hayama looked at me provokingly, as if daring me to contradict her.

I was not surprised by the old woman's reasoning. The Iticoteri were in the habit of bringing their mythology up to date, or of incorporating facts into their myths. "Do Indian women ever become shapori?" I asked.

"Yes," Hayama said promptly. "Female shapori are strange creatures. Like men, they hunt with bow and arrows. They decorate their bodies with the spots and broken circles of a jaguar. They take epena, and lure the hekuras into their chests with their songs. Women shapori have husbands who serve them. But if they have children, they once again become ordinary women."

"Angelica was a shapori, was she not?" I was unaware I had thought out loud. The thought came with the certainty of a revelation.

I recalled the time Angelica had awakened me from a nightmare at the mission, the way her incomprehensible song had soothed me. It had not resembled the melodious song of the Iticoteri women but the monotonous chant of the shamans. Like them, Angelica seemed to possess two voices- one that originated from somewhere deep inside her, the other from her throat.

I remembered the days of walking with Milagros and Angelica through the forest and how Angelica's remarks about the spirits of the forest lurking in the shadows- that I should always dance with them, but never let them become a burden- had enchanted me. I clearly visualized how Angelica had danced that morning- her arms raised above her head, her feet moving with quick jerky steps in the same manner that the Iticoteri men danced when in an epena trance.

Until now I had never thought it in the least odd that Angelica, as opposed to the other Indian women at the mission, had considered it very natural for me to have come to hunt in the jungle.

Hayama's words awoke me from my musings. "Did my sister tell you she was a shapori?" A profound grief filled Hayama's eyes; tears gathered at their corners. The drops never rolled down her cheeks but lost themselves in a network of wrinkles.

"She never told me," I murmured, then lay down in my hammock. With one leg on the ground I pushed myself back and forth, adjusting the rhythm of my hammock to Hayama's so that the vine knots would squeak in unison.

"My sister was a shapori," Hayama said after a long silence. "I do not know what happened to her after she left our shabono. While she was with us, she was a respected shapori, but she lost her powers when she had Milagros." Hayama sat up abruptly. "His father was a white man."

Afraid that my curiosity might escape through my eyes, I closed them. I did not dare breathe, lest the smallest sound put an end to the old woman's reveries. There was no way of learning which country Milagros's father had come from. Regardless of their origins, any non-Indian was considered a nape.

"Milagros's father was a white man," Hayama repeated. "A long time ago, when we lived closer to the big river, a nape came to stay at our settlement. Angelica believed she could get his power. Instead she got pregnant."

"Why did she not abort?"

A broad grin crossed Hayama's lined face. "Perhaps Angelica was too confident," the old woman murmured. "Maybe she believed she could still be a shapori after having a child by a white man." Hayama's mouth opened wide with laughter, revealing yellowish teeth. "There is nothing white about Milagros," she said mischievously. "Even though my sister took him away. In spite of all he learned from the white man, Milagros will always be an Iticoteri." Hayama's eyes shone with a strong, unwavering stare, and her face revealed a certain indefinable, pent-up triumph.

The thought that I would soon be returning to the mission filled me with apprehension. On several occasions since my illness I had tried to imagine what it would be like to return to Caracas or to Los Angeles. How would I react to seeing relatives and friends? During those moments, I had known I would never leave of my own accord.

"When will Milagros take me back to the mission?" I asked.

"I do not think Arasuwe will wait for Milagros. The headman can no longer postpone his departure," Hayama said. "Iramamowe will take you back."

"Iramamowe!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "Why not Etewa?"

Patiently, Hayama explained that Iramamowe had been near the mission on several occasions. He knew the way better than any of the Iticoteri. There was also the possibility of Etewa being discovered by Mocototeri hunters, in which case he would be killed and I would be abducted. "Iramamowe, on the other hand," Hayama assured me, "can make himself invisible in the forest."

"But I can not!" I protested.

"You will be guarded by Iramamowe's hekuras," Hayama said with utter conviction. Cumbersomely, the old woman stood up, rested for a moment with her hands on her thighs, then took my arm and slowly walked me over to her own hut. "Iramamowe has protected you before," Hayama reminded me, then eased herself into her hammock.

"Yes," I agreed. "But I can not go to the mission without Milagros. I need sardines and crackers."

"That stuff will only make you sick," she said contemptuously. Hayama assured me that I would not suffer from hunger on the way, for Iramamowe's arrows would hit plenty of game. Besides, she would give me a basketful of plantains.

"I am too weak to carry such a heavy load," I objected, knowing that Iramamowe would carry nothing besides his bow and arrows.

Hayama regarded me with gentle mockery. She stretched in her hammock, opened her mouth in an interminable yawn, and promptly fell asleep.

I walked into the clearing. A group of children, mostly little girls, were playing with a puppy. Each girl tried to make the animal suck from her flat nipples.

Except for a few old people resting in their hammocks, and several menstruating women crouching near the hearths, most of the huts were deserted. I went from dwelling to dwelling, wondering if they knew I was soon to leave. An old man offered me his tobacco wad. Smiling, I declined. "How can anyone refuse such a treat?" his eyes seemed to say as he reinserted the wad between his lower lip and gum.

Late in the afternoon I walked into Iramamowe's hut. His oldest wife, who had just returned from the river, was hanging two water-filled gourds on the rafters. We had become good friends since the time her son Xorowe had been initiated as a shapori, and we had spent many afternoons talking about him. Occasionally Xorowe returned to the shabono to cure people afflicted with colds, fevers, and diarrhea. He chanted to the hekuras with the same zeal and strength as the more experienced shamans did. Yet, according to Puriwariwe, it would still be some time before Xorowe could send his own spirits to cause harm among an enemy settlement. Only then would he be accepted as a full-fledged sorcerer.

Iramamowe's wife poured some water into a small calabash, then added some honey. Greedily, I watched the runny paste, studded with bees in the various stages of their metamorphic process. After stirring it thoroughly with her finger she offered me the gourd. Smacking my lips between each sip, I finished the drink, and licked the bottom clean. "What a delight," I exclaimed. "I am sure it is from the amoshi bees." They were a sting-less variety, and greatly prized for their dark aromatic honey.

Smiling in agreement, Iramamowe's wife motioned me to sit beside her in her hammock. She examined my back for flea and mosquito bites. Discovering two recent ones, she sucked out the poison. The light entering the hut grew dimmer. It seemed that such a long time had passed since I had talked with Hayama that morning. Drowsily, I closed my eyes.

I dreamt I was with the children by the river. Thousands of butterflies fluttered out of the trees, swirling through the air like autumn leaves. They alighted on our hair, faces, and bodies, covering us with the tenuous golden light of dusk. Despondently I gazed at their wings, like delicate hands waving farewell. "You cannot be sad," the children were saying. I looked into each face, and kissed the laughter on their lips.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 6 - Chapter 24.

Instead of the bamboo knife she always used, Ritimi trimmed my hair with a sharp grass blade. Frowning with concentration, she made sure the hair was cut evenly all around my head.

"Not my tonsure," I said, covering the top of my head with my folded hands. "It hurts."

"Do not be so cowardly," Ritimi laughed. "You do not want to arrive at the mission looking like a barbarian."

I could not make her understand that among whites I would be considered an oddity with a bald spot on the top of my head. Ritimi insisted that it was not merely for aesthetic reasons but practical ones as well that she needed to shave the crown of my head.

"Lice," she pointed out, "like that particular spot best. I am certain Iramamowe will not delouse you in the evenings."

"Maybe you should shave my hair completely," I suggested. "That is the best way to get rid of them."

Horrified, Ritimi stared at me. "Only the very sick have their heads shaved. You would look ugly."

Nodding in agreement, I submitted to her ministrations. Upon finishing, she rubbed the bald spot with onoto. Then, she very carefully painted my face with the red paste. She drew a wide straight line just below my bangs and wavy ones across my cheeks with dots between each of the lines. "What a shame I did not pierce your nose and the corners of your mouth when you first arrived," she said disappointedly. Removing the polished slender stick from her septum, she held it under my nose. "How beautiful you would have looked," she sighed with comical resignation, and proceeded to paint my back with wide onoto lines rounding toward my buttocks. On the front, starting below my breasts, she drew wavy lines all the way to my thighs. Lastly she encircled my ankles with broad red bands. Looking down my legs, I had the feeling I was wearing socks.

Tutemi tied a newly made cotton belt around my waist, the front fringe resting on my pubis. Pleased at my appearance, she clapped her hands and jumped up and down excitedly. "Oh, the ears!" she cried, motioning Ritimi to hand her the white feather tufts held together on a thin string. Tutemi tied them on my earrings. Around my upper arms and below my knees she fastened red-dyed cotton strands.

Encircling my waist with her arm, Ritimi took me from hut to hut, so I could be admired by the Iticoteri. For one last time I saw myself reflected in the women's shiny eyes; and delighted in the men's mocking smiles. Yawning, old Kamosiwe stretched his skinny arms until they seemed about to be pulled from their sockets. He opened his one eye, studying my face as if he were trying to memorize my features. With slow, deliberate movements, he unfastened the small pouch he wore around his neck, and took out the pearl I had given him. "Whenever I let this stone roll on my palm, I will think of you."

Unwilling to believe that never again would I stand there in the shabono, that never again would I awake to the children's laughter as they climbed into my hammock at dawn, I wept.

There were no good-byes. I simply followed Iramamowe and Etewa into the forest. Ritimi and Tutemi were behind me, as if we were going to collect firewood. Silently we walked along the path the whole day, stopping only momentarily to snack.

The sun was setting behind the horizon of trees when we came to a halt beneath the dark shadows of three giant ceibas. They had grown so close together that they appeared to be one. Ritimi fastened the basket she had been carrying for me on my back. It was packed with plantains, roasted monkey meat, a honey-filled calabash, several empty gourds, my hammock, and my knapsack which contained my jeans and a torn shirt.

"You will not grow sad if you paint your body with onoto each time you bathe in the river," Ritimi said, tying a small gourd around my waist. It had been polished with abrasive leaves. Smooth and white, it hung from my cotton belt like a giant teardrop.

The forest, the three smiling faces, blurred before me. Without another word, Ritimi led the way into the thicket. Only Etewa turned around before melting into the shadows. A grin lit his face as he waved the way he had so often seen Milagros do when he bid me farewell.

I gave free rein to the vast desolation inside me. It did not make me feel any better, but only heightened my despondency. Yet, in spite of my wretchedness, I was strangely aware of the three ceibas in front of me. As if in a dream, I recognized the trees. I had been on this very spot before. Milagros had squatted in front of me. Impassively, he had watched the rain wash my face and body of Angelica's ashes. Today it was Iramamowe squatting on the same spot, gazing at the tears rolling uncontrollably down my cheeks.

"It was here that I first saw Ritimi, Tutemi, and Etewa," I said. Suddenly I realized it had been Ritimi's deliberate choice to accompany me this far. I understood all she had left unsaid, how deeply she felt. She had given me back a basket and a gourd, the two items I was carrying that distant day. Only now the gourd was not filled with ashes, but with onoto, a symbol of life and happiness. A quiet loneliness, humble and accepting, filled my heart. I carefully dried my tears so as not to erase the onoto designs.

"Perhaps one day Ritimi will find you on this spot again," Iramamowe said, his habitually stern face softened by a fleeting smile. "Let us walk a bit farther before we rest for the night." Lifting the heavy bunch of plantains from my basket, he Hung it over his shoulder. He was slightly swaybacked and his belly stuck out.

Iramamowe must have felt the same urge to walk as I did. My feet seemed to move of their own accord, knowing exactly where to step in the darkness. I never lost sight of Iramamowe's arrow quiver, immobilized under the load of plantains. Moving through the darkness, I had the illusion that it was not I but the forest that was leaving.

"We will sleep here," Iramamowe said, inspecting the weathered lean-to that stood away from the path. He built a small fire inside, then hung his hammock next to mine.

I lay awake watching the stars and the faint moon through the opening of the hut. Mist thickened the darkness until there was no light left. Trees and sky formed one mass through which I imagined bows falling from the clouds like heavy rain; and hekuras rising from invisible crevices in the earth. They danced to the sound of a shaman's song.

The sun was high over the treetops when Iramamowe woke me. After finishing a baked plantain and a piece of monkey meat, I offered him my calabash with honey.

"You will need it for the days of walking," he said. A friendly glance softened his words of refusal. "We will find more on the way," he promised, reaching for his machete and his bow and arrows.

We walked at a steady pace, much faster than I remember ever having walked in my life. We crossed rivers, we moved up and down hills that bore no familiar landmark. Days spent walking, nights spent sleeping chased each other with predictable swiftness. My thoughts did not reach beyond each day or night. There was nothing between them but a short-lived dawn and dusk during which we ate.

"I know this place!" I exclaimed one afternoon, breaking the long silence. I pointed to the dark rocks jutting from the earth. They formed a perpendicular wall along the river's edge. But the longer I gazed at the river and trees, already purple in the twilight, the less sure I felt I had been there before. I climbed over a tree trunk that extended all the way into the water. The day had been deadly still, but now the leaves began to stir gently, sending forth a fresh whisper along the river. Arching branches and creepers brushed the water's surface, burying themselves in the dark liquid that harbored no fish and discouraged mosquitoes. "Are we close to the mission?" I asked, turning to Iramamowe.

He did not answer. After a moment, as if annoyed by the silence he was unwilling to break, he motioned me to follow.

I felt tired- each step was an effort- yet I could not remember having gone very far that day. I lifted my head as I heard the cry of a bird. A yellow leaf, like a giant butterfly, fluttered from a branch. As if afraid to fall and rot on the ground, the leaf clung to my thigh. Iramamowe held out his hand behind him, gesturing me to remain still. Stealthily he stalked along the riverbank. "We will eat meat tonight," he whispered, then disappeared in the uncertain light, his body but a line against the shimmering river's surface.

Lying down on the dark sand, I watched the sky ablaze for a moment as the earth swallowed the sun. I drank the last of the honey Iramamowe had found that morning, then fell asleep with its sweetness on my lips. Awakened by the sound of crackling flames, I turned on my stomach. On a small platform built over the fire Iramamowe was roasting an almost two-foot-long agouti.

"It is not good to sleep at night without the protection of a fire," he said, facing me. "The spirits of the forest might bewitch you."

"I am so tired," I yawned, moving closer to the fire. "I could sleep for days."

"It will rain during the night," Iramamowe announced as he planted the three poles that would make our shelter around the roasting meat. I helped him cover the roof and sides with the wild banana fronds he had cut while I slept. He fastened the hammocks close to the fire, so we could push the logs to the flames without having to get up.

The agouti tasted like roast pork, tender and juicy. What we did not finish Iramamowe tied to a stick high above the fire. "We will eat the rest in the morning." Grinning, as if pleased with himself, he stretched fully in his hammock. "It will give us strength to climb the mountains."

"Mountains?" I asked. "I only went over hills when I came with Angelica and Milagros." I bent over Iramamowe. "The only time I climbed up a mountain was when I returned to the shabono with Ritimi and Etewa from the Mocototeri feast. Those mountains were close to the shabono." I touched his face. "Are you sure you know the way to the mission?"

"What a question to ask," he said, closing his eyes, and crossing his arms over his chest. His bristly eyebrows slanted toward his temples. There were a few hairs at the edge of his upper lip. The skin over his high cheekbones was stretched taut, only a faint trace of the onoto designs still recognizable. As if annoyed by my scrutiny, he opened his eyes. They reflected the light of the fire, but his gaze revealed nothing.

I lay down in my hammock. I ran my fingers along my forehead and cheeks, wondering if the onoto lines and dots had also faded on my face. Tomorrow I will bathe in the river, I thought. And my uneasiness, which is probably nothing but exhaustion, will vanish as soon as I paint myself anew with onoto. Yet, no matter how I tried to reassure myself, I was unable to still my mounting distrust. My body and mind were tight with a vague premonition I could not put into words. The air became chilly. Leaning over, I pushed one of the logs closer to the flames.

"It will be even colder in the mountains," Iramamowe mumbled. "I will make us a drink from plants that will keep us warm."

Reassured by his words, I began to inhale and exhale with exaggerated depth, deliberately pushing all thoughts away, until I was aware of nothing but the sound of the rain, the smoke-warmed air, the smell of damp earth. And I slept a calm, untroubled sleep that lasted throughout the night.

In the morning we bathed in the river, then painted each other's faces and bodies with onoto. Iramamowe was specific about the designs he desired: A serpentine line across his forehead, extending down to his jaws, then around his mouth; a circle between his brow, at the corners of his eyes, and two on each cheek. On his chest he wanted wavy lines, running all the way to his navel, and on his back the lines had to be straight. A smile of gentle mockery softened his face as he covered me from head to foot with uniform circles.

"What do they mean?" I asked eagerly. Ritimi had never decorated me thus.

"Nothing," he said, laughing. "This way you do not look so skinny."

At first the ascent up the narrow trail was easy. The undergrowth was free of serrated grasses and thorny weeds. A warm mist enshrouded the forest, creating a diaphanous light through which the crowns of the tall palm trees seemed to hang suspended from the sky. The sound of waterfalls echoed eerily through the misty air, and each time I brushed against a branch or leaf tiny drops of moisture clung to me. The afternoon rain, however, turned the path into a muddy menace. I bruised my toes repeatedly on the roots and stones beneath the slippery surface.

We made camp late in the afternoon, halfway up the summit. Exhausted, I sat on the ground and watched Iramamowe pound three strong poles into the earth. I did not have the strength to help him cover the triangular structure with palm fronds and giant leaves.

"Are you coming back this way on your return to the shabono?" I asked, wondering why he was reinforcing the hut so well. It appeared altogether too sturdy for a one-night shelter.

Iramamowe gave me a sidelong glance but did not answer.

"Is there going to be a storm tonight?" I asked in an exasperated tone.

An irrepressible smile played around his lips, and his face looked uncannily childish as he squatted beside me. A mischievous sparkle, as if he were planning some prank, shone in his eyes. "Tonight you will sleep well," he finally said, then proceeded to build a fire inside the cozy hut. He fastened my hammock in the back, and hung his close to the narrow entrance. "Tonight we will not feel the cold air," he said, looking for the gourd in which were soaking the shredded leaves and pale yellow flowers of a plant he had found the previous day, growing over some rocks in a sunny spot along the river's edge. He unsealed the calabash, added more water, then placed it over the fire. Softly he began to chant, his eyes fixed on the dark simmering liquid.

Trying to figure out the words of his song, I fell asleep. I was awakened shortly by him. "Drink this," he urged, holding the gourd close to my lips. "It has been cooled by the mountain dew."

I took a sip. It tasted like herb tea, bitter but not unpleasantly so. After a few more gulps, I pushed the calabash toward him.

"Drink it all," Iramamowe said coaxingly. "It will keep you warm. You will sleep for days."

"Days?" I emptied the gourd, smiling at his remark as if it were a joke. A faint touch of malice seemed to be lurking somewhere within him. By the time it fully dawned on me that he was not being facetious, a pleasant numbness seeped through my body, melting my anxiety into a comforting heaviness that made my head feel as if it were lead. I was sure it would break off my neck. The image of my head rolling on the ground, a ball with two glass eyes, threw me into spasms of laughter.

Crouching by the fire, Iramamowe watched me with growing curiosity. Slowly, I stood up. I have lost my physicality, I thought. I had no control over my legs as I tried to place one foot in front of the other. Dejected, I slumped on the ground, next to Iramamowe. "Why do you not laugh?" I asked, surprised at my own words. What I really wanted to know was if the sound of drops prattling on the thatched roof was a storm. I wondered if I had actually spoken, for the words kept reverberating in my head like a distant echo. Afraid to miss his answer, I moved closer to him.

Iramamowe's face became taut as the cry of a nocturnal monkey broke the night's stillness. His nostrils flared, his full lips set in a straight line. His eyes, piercing into mine, grew larger, shining with a deep loneliness, a gentleness that contrasted oddly with his severe mask-like face.

As if I were animated by a slow-motion mechanism, I crawled to the edge of the hut, each of my movements a gigantic effort. I felt as if all my tendons had been replaced with elastic strings. I relished the sensation of being able to stretch in any direction, into the most absurd postures I could imagine.

From the pouch hanging around his neck, Iramamowe poured epena into his palm. He drew the hallucinogenic powder deep into his nostrils, then began chanting. I felt his song inside me, surrounding me, drawing me toward him. Without any hesitation I drank from the gourd he once again held to my lips. The dark liquid no longer tasted bitter.

My sense of time and distance became distorted. Iramamowe and the fire were so far away, I feared I had lost them across the wide expanse of the hut. Yet the next instant, his eyes were so close to mine I saw myself reflected in their dark pupils. I was crushed by the weight of his body, and my arms folded beneath his chest. He whispered words into my ears that I could not hear. A breeze parted the leaves, revealing the shadowy night, the treetops brushing the stars- countless stars, massed together as if in readiness to fall. I reached out. My hand grasped leaves adorned with diamond drops. For an instant, they clung to my fingers, then disintegrated like dew.

Iramamowe's heavy body held me. His eyes sowed seeds of light inside me. His gentle voice urged me to follow him through dreams of day and night, dreams of rainwater and bitter leaves. There was nothing violent about his body imprisoning mine. Waves of pleasure mingled with visions of mountains and rivers, faraway places where hekuras dwell. I danced with the spirits of animals and trees, gliding with them through mist, through roots and trunks, through branches and leaves. I sang with the voices of birds and spiders, jaguars and snakes. I shared the dreams of all those who feed on epena, on bitter flowers and leaves.

I no longer knew if I was awake or dreaming. At moments I vaguely remembered old Hayama's words about shamans needing the femaleness in their bodies. But those memories were neither clear nor lasting. They remained dim, unexamined premonitions. Iramamowe always knew whenever I was about to fall into real sleep, whenever my tongue was ready to ask, whenever I was about to weep.

"If you can not dream, I will make you," he said, taking me in his arms, and rubbing away my tears against his cheek. And my desire to refuse the gourd sitting by the fire like a forest spirit vanished. Greedily I drank the dark bearer of visions until once again I was suspended in a timelessness that was neither day or night. I was one with the rhythm of Iramamowe's breath, with the beat of his heart, as I merged with the light and the darkness inside him.

A time came when I felt I was moving through an undergrowth of trees, leaves, and motionless vines. I knew I was not walking; yet I was descending from the cold forest, sunk in mist. My feet were tied and my upside-down head shook as though it were being emptied. Visions flowed from my ears, nostrils, and mouth, leaving a faint line on the steep path. And for one last instant I glimpsed shabonos inhabited by men and women shamans of another time.

When I awoke, Iramamowe was crouched by the fire, his face alight with the flames and a faint streak of moon shining into the hut. I wondered how many days had elapsed since the night he had first offered me the bitter-tasting brew. There was no gourd by the fire. I was certain we were no longer in the mountains. The night was clear. The soft breeze stirring the treetops disentangled my thoughts and I drifted into a dreamless sleep as I listened to the monotonous sound of Iramamowe's hekura songs.

The persistent growling of my stomach awoke me. I felt dizzy as I stood on uncertain legs in the empty hut. My body was painted with wavy lines. How strange it had all been, I thought. I felt no regret. I was not filled with hate or repulsion. It was not that I was numbed emotionally. Rather I felt the same indescribable sensation I experienced upon awakening from a dream that I could not quite explain.

Near the fire lay a bundle containing roasted frogs. I sat on the ground and gnawed on the tiny bones until they were clean. Iramamowe's machete reclining against one of the poles reassured me that he was somewhere close by.

Following the sound of the river, I walked through the tangled growth. Startled to see Iramamowe beaching a small canoe only a short distance away, I hid behind some bushes. I recognized the craft as being one made by the Maquiritare Indians. I had seen that kind, made from a hollowed tree trunk, at the mission. The thought that we might be close to one of their settlements, or perhaps even to the mission, made my heart beat faster. Iramamowe gave no indication of having heard or seen me approach. Furtively, I returned to the shelter, wondering how he came into possession of the canoe.

Moments later, with a vine rope and a large bundle slung over his back, Iramamowe walked into the hut. "Fish," he said, dropping the rope and bundle on the ground.

I blushed, and embarrassed at my blushing, laughed.

Unhurriedly, he balanced the wrapped fish between the logs, making sure enough heat but no direct flames reached the platanillo leaves. Totally engrossed in the sound of the simmering fish, he remained squatting by the fire. As soon as all the juices were cooked away, he removed the bundle from the logs with a forked stick and opened it. "It is good," he said, scooping a handful of white, flaky meat into his mouth, then pushed the bundle toward me.

"What happened in the mountains?" I asked,

Startled by my belligerent tone, his mouth gaped open. A piece of unchewed fish fell into the ashes. Automatically, without checking the dirt sticking to it, he put the morsel back into his mouth, then reached for the liana rope on the ground.

An irrational fear seized me. I was convinced that Iramamowe was going to tie me up and carry me farther into the forest. I was no longer aware that only a short while before I had been certain we were near a Maquiritare settlement, or even the mission. All I could think of was old Hayama's story about shamans who kept captive women hidden in faraway places. I was convinced Iramamowe would never take me back to the mission. The thought that had he wanted to keep me hidden in the forest he would not have brought me down from the mountains did not cross my mind at that moment.

I did not trust his smile, nor the gentle glint in his eyes. I picked up the water-filled gourd standing by the fire and offered it to him. Smiling, he dropped the rope. I moved closer as if I intended to bring the calabash to his lips. Instead, I smashed it between his eyes with all my strength. Caught totally unawares, he fell backward, staring at me in dumb incredulity as the blood ran down on both sides of his nose.

Heedless of thorns, roots, and the sharp grass, I sped through the thicket toward the place where I had seen the canoe. But I miscalculated where Iramamowe had anchored it, for when I reached the river there was nothing but stones strewn along the bank. The craft was farther upriver. With a swiftness I hardly believed myself capable of, I leaped from rock to rock. Gasping for breath, I slumped beside the canoe, pushed halfway up the sandy bank. A cry escaped my throat when I saw Iramamowe standing in front of me.

Squatting, he opened his mouth and laughed. His laughter came in bursts, extending from his face to his feet with such force the ground shook beneath me. Tears ran down his cheeks, mingling with the blood from the gash between his brows. "You forgot this," he said, dangling my knapsack in front of me. He opened it, then handed me my jeans and shirt. "Today you will reach the mission."

"Is this the river on which the mission stands?" I asked, staring at his bloodstained face. "I do not recognize this place."

"You have been here with Angelica and Milagros," he assured me. "The rains change the rivers and the forest the way the clouds change the sky."

I pulled up my jeans; loosely they hung from my waist, threatening to slide over my hips. The damp moldy-smelling shirt made me sneeze. I felt awkward and turned uncertain eyes to Iramamowe. "How do I look?"

He walked around me, examining me meticulously from every angle. Then, after a moment's deliberation, he squatted once more and pronounced with a laugh, "You look better painted with onoto."

I squatted beside him. The wind was still. There was no movement on the river. Shadows from the tall trees reached across the water, darkening the sand at our feet. I wanted to apologize for smashing the gourd in his face, and to explain my suspicions. I wanted him to tell me of the days in the mountains, but was reluctant to break the silence.

As if cognizant and amused by my dilemma, Iramamowe lowered his face to his knees and laughed softly, as if sharing his mirth with the drops of blood falling between his wide spread toes. "I wanted to take the hekuras I once saw in your eyes," he murmured. He went on to say that not only he but also Puriwariwe, the old shapori, had seen the hekuras within me. "Every time I lay with you and felt the energy bursting inside you, I hoped to lure the spirits into my chest," Iramamowe said. "But they did not want to leave you." He turned his eyes to me, intense with protest. "The hekuras would not answer my call; they would not heed my songs. And then I became afraid that you might take the hekuras from my body."

Anger and an indescribable sadness rendered me speechless for a moment. "Did we stay longer than a day and a night in the mountains?" I finally asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Iramamowe nodded, but did not say for how long we had remained in the hut. "When I was certain that I could not change your body; when I realized that the hekuras would not leave you, I carried you in a sling to this place."

"Had you changed my body would you have kept me in the forest?"

Iramamowe looked at me sheepishly. A smile of relief parted his lips, yet his eyes were veiled with a vague regret. "You have the soul and shadow of an Iticoteri," he murmured. "You have eaten the ashes of our dead. But your body and head is that of a nape." A silence punctuated his last sentence before he softly added, "There will be nights when the wind will bring your voice mingled with the cries of monkeys and jaguars. And I will see your shadow dancing on the ground, painted by the moonlight. On those nights I will think of you." He stood up and pushed the canoe into the water. "Stay close to the bank- otherwise the current will take you too swiftly," he said, motioning me to climb inside.

"Are you not coming?" I asked, alarmed.

"It is a good canoe," he said, handing me a small paddle. It had a beautifully shaped handle, a rounded shaft, and the oval blade was shaped like a pointed concave shield. "It will take you safely to the mission."

"Wait!" I cried before he let go of the craft. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the zippered side pocket of my knapsack. I took out the leather pouch, and handed it to him. "Do you remember the stone the shaman Juan Caridad gave me?" I asked. "It is yours now."

Something between shock and surprise seemed to momentarily paralyze his face. Slowly his fingers closed over the pouch, and his features relaxed into a smile. Without a word, he pushed the canoe into the water. Folding his arms across his chest, he watched me drift downriver. I turned my head often, until he was out of sight. There was a moment when I thought I still saw his figure, but it was only the wind playing with the shadows that tricked my eyes.

Shabono. ©1982 by Florinda Donner.

Part 6 - Chapter 25.

The trees on either side of the banks, the clouds traveling across the sky shadowed the river. Hoping to shorten the time between the world left behind and the one now awaiting me, I paddled as fast as I could. But I soon got tired, and then only used the small paddle to push myself free whenever I got too close to the bank.

At times the river was clear, reflecting the lush greenness with exaggerated intensity. There was something peaceful about the darkness of the forest and the deep silence around me. The trees seemed to be nodding in farewell as they bent slightly with the afternoon breeze; or perhaps they were only lamenting the passing of day, of the sun's last rays fading in the sky. Shortly before twilight deepened, I maneuvered the canoe toward the opposite bank, where I had seen stretches of sand amidst the dark rocks.

As soon as the craft hit the sand, I jumped out and dragged the canoe farther up the bank, close to the forest edge, where drooping vines and branches formed a safe, dark nook. I turned around and gazed at the distant mountains, violet in the dusk, and I wondered if I had been up there for more than a week before Iramamowe carried me to the hut where I had awakened that morning. I climbed to the highest rock and scanned the landscape for the lights of the mission. It had to be farther than Iramamowe estimated, I thought. Only darkness crept from out of the river, crawling up the rocks as the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared from the sky. I was hungry but did not dare explore the sandy river shore for turtle eggs.

I could not decide whether I should place my knapsack under my head as a pillow or wrap it around my cold feet as I lay inside the canoe. Through the tangled mass of branches above me I saw the clear sky, filled with innumerable tiny stars shining like golden specks of dust. As I drifted off to sleep, my feet tucked in my knapsack, I hoped that my feelings, like the light of the stars spanning the sky, would reach those I had loved in the forest.

I awoke shortly. The air was filled with the sounds of crickets and frogs. I sat up, then looked around me as if I could dispel the darkness. Shafts of moonlight spilled through the branches, painting the sand with grotesque shadows that seemed to come alive with the rustling of wind. Even with my eyes closed, I was painfully conscious of the shadows brushing against the canoe. And each time a cricket interrupted its continuous chirping I opened my eyes, waiting for the sound to resume. Dawn finally silenced the cries, murmurs, and whistling of the forest. The mist-coated leaves looked as if they had been sprinkled with fine silver dust.

The sun rose over the treetops, tinting the clouds orange, purple, and pink. I bathed, washed my clothes with the fine river sand, spread them over the canoe to dry, then painted myself with onoto.

I was glad I had not arrived at the mission the day before, as I had first hoped, but that I still had time to watch the clouds change the sky. To the east, heavy clouds gathered, darkening the horizon. Lightning flashed in the distance, thunder followed after long intervals, and white lines of rain moved across the sky toward the north, keeping ahead of me. I wondered if alligators were basking in the sun amid the driftwood scattered on the bank. I had not floated downriver for long before the waters widened. The current became so strong I had a hard time keeping from swirling around in the shallow waters along the bank beset with rocks.

For an instant I thought I was hallucinating when I saw on the opposite bank a long dugout slowly pushing its way upriver. I stood up, frantically waving my shirt in the air, then cried with sheer happiness as the dugout crossed the wide expanse of water and headed toward me. With calculated precision, the almost thirty-foot-long canoe beached just a few paces away.

Smiling, twelve people climbed out of the canoe- four women, four men, and four children. They looked odd in their Western clothes and the purple designs on their faces. Their hair was cut like mine, but the crown of their head was not shaved.

"Maquiritare?" I asked.

Nodding, the women bit their lips as if trying to contain their giggles. Their chins quivered until they burst into uncontrollable laughter that was echoed by the men. Hastily, I put on my jeans and shirt. The oldest woman came closer. She was short and sturdy, her sleeveless dress revealing round fat arms and long breasts, which hung to her waist. "You are the one who went into the forest with the old Iticoteri woman," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have found me paddling down-river in a dugout made by her people. "We know about you from the father at the mission." After formally shaking my hand, the old woman introduced me to her husband, their three daughters, their respective husbands and children.

"We left early this morning," the old woman's husband said. "We have been visiting relatives who live nearby."

"She has become a real savage," the youngest of the three daughters cried, pointing to my cut feet with such an expression of outrage that it was all I could do not to giggle. She searched my canoe and shook the empty knapsack. "She has no shoes," she said in disbelief. "She is a real savage!"

I looked at her bare feet.

"Our shoes are in the canoe," she affirmed, and proceeded to bring an assortment of footwear from the boat. "See? We all have shoes."

"Do you have any food with you?" I asked.

"We do," the old woman assured me, then asked her daughter to put the shoes back into the canoe, and bring one of the bark boxes.

The box was lined with platanillo leaves and filled with cassava bread. I huddled over the food, almost hugging it as I dunked piece after piece into a water-filled calabash before popping it into my mouth. "My stomach is full and happy," I said after I had eaten halfway down the box.

The Maquiritare regretted that they had no meat but only sugarcane with them. The old man cut a foot-long piece, peeled the bamboo-like bark with his machete, then handed it to me. "It will give you strength," he said.

I chewed and sucked on the pale hard fibers until they were dry and tasteless. The Maquiritare had heard about Milagros. One of the sons-in-law knew him personally, but none of them knew where Milagros was.

"We will take you to the mission," the old man said.

I made a feeble attempt to convince him that it was not necessary for him to retrace his steps, but my words lacked conviction. Eagerly I boarded the craft, sitting between the women and children. To take advantage of the full speed of the current, the men steered the canoe right into the middle of the river. They paddled without saying a word to each other, yet each man was so attuned to the others' rhythm that they were able to anticipate each other's precise needs in advance. I remembered Milagros had once mentioned to me that the Maquiritare were not only the greatest boat builders of the Orinoco area, but also the best navigators.

Exhaustion pressed heavily on my eyes. The rhythmic splashing of the paddles made me so drowsy, my head kept lolling forward and sideways. The bygone days and nights drifted through my mind like fragmented dreams of another time. It seemed all so vague, so far away, as if it had all been an illusion.

It was noon when I was awakened by Father Coriolano, who had come into the room to bring me a mug filled with coffee. "Eighteen hours of sleep is a good start," he said. His smile held the same reassuring warmth with which he had greeted me the day before as I stepped out of the Maquiritare's boat.

My eyes were still heavy with sleep as I sat on the canvas cot. My back was stiff from resting in a flat position. Slowly, I sipped the hot black brew, so strong, and thickened with sugar it made me nauseous.

"I also have chocolate," Father Coriolano said.

I straightened the calico shift I had been given to sleep in, and followed him into the kitchen. With the flair of a chef preparing a fancy meal, he stirred two tablespoons of dried milk powder, four of Nestle's chocolate powder, four of sugar, and a few grains of salt into a pot of water boiling on a kerosene stove.

He drank my unfinished coffee while I spooned the delicious-tasting chocolate. "I can radio your friends in Caracas to pick you up with their plane anytime you want."

"Oh, not yet," I said faintly.

The days passed slowly. In the mornings I wandered around the gardens along the riverbank and at noon I sat under the large mango tree that bore no fruit outside the chapel. Father Coriolano did not ask me what my plans were, or how long I intended to stay at the mission. He seemed to have accepted my presence as something inevitable.

In the evenings I spent hours talking to Father Coriolano and to Mr. Barth, who often came to visit. We chatted about the crops, the school, the dispensary- always impersonal subjects. I was grateful that neither of them asked me where I had been for over a year, what I had done, or what I had seen. I would not have been able to answer- not because I wanted to be secretive, but because there was nothing to say. If we exhausted our conversation, Mr. Barth would read us articles from newspapers and magazines, some over twenty years old. Regardless of whether we were listening or not, he rattled on as he pleased, now and then interrupting himself to roar with laughter.

In spite of their humor and affable nature, there were evenings when shadows of loneliness crossed their faces as we sat in silence listening to the rain pattering on the corrugated roof; or to the solitary cry of a howler monkey settling for the night. It was then that I wondered if they too had learned the secrets of the forest; secrets of misty caves; of the sound of sap running through branches and trunks; of spiders spinning their silvery webs. At those times I wondered if that was what Father Coriolano had tried to warn me about when he had talked of the dangers of the forest. And I wondered if it was this that kept them from returning to the world they had left behind.

At night, enclosed in the four walls of my room, I felt a vast emptiness. I missed the closeness of the huts, the smell of people and smoke. Carried by the sound of the river flowing outside my window, I dreamt I was with the Iticoteri. I heard Ritimi's laughter, I saw the children's smiling faces, and there was always Iramamowe, squatting outside his hut calling to the hekuras that had eluded him.

Walking along the river's edge one afternoon, I was overcome by an uncontrollable sadness. The noise of the river was loud, drowning out the voices of the people chatting nearby. It had rained at noon and the sun peeked through the clouds without properly shining. Aimlessly I walked up and down the sandy beach. Then in the distance I saw the lonely figure of a man approaching. Dressed in khaki pants and a red checkered shirt, he looked indistinguishable from any of the Westernized Indians around the mission. Yet there was something familiar about the man's swaggering gait.

"Milagros!" I cried, then waited until he stood before me. His face looked unfamiliar under the torn straw hat through which his hair stuck out like blackened palm fibers. "I am so glad you came."

Smiling, he motioned me to squat beside him. He brushed his hand over the top of my head. "Your hair has grown," he said. "I knew you would not leave until you saw me."

"I am going back to Los Angeles," I said. There had been so many things I wanted to ask him, but now that he was beside me, I no longer saw the need to have anything explained. We watched the twilight spread over the river and the forest. The darkness filled with the sounds of frogs and crickets. A full moon ascended the sky. It grew smaller as it climbed and covered the river with silver ripples. "Like a dream," I murmured.

"A dream," Milagros repeated. "A dream you will always dream. A dream of walking, of laughter, of sadness." There was a long pause before he continued. "Even though your body has lost our smell, a part of you will always keep a bit of our world," he said, gesturing toward the distance. "You will never be free."

"I did not even thank them," I said. "There is no thank you in your language."

"Neither is there good-bye," he added.

Something cold, like a drop of rain or dew, touched my forehead. When I turned to face him, Milagros was no longer by my side. From across the river, out of the distant darkness, the wind carried the Iticoteri's laughter. "Good-bye is said with the eyes." The voice rustled through the ancient trees, then vanished, like the silvery ripples on the water.