Chapter 12: Recovery
Nineteen days after his arrival in the Guayuki camp, Sebastian found that he no longer had the energy to care for the dying Indians. He barely had enough strength to wake himself up and drink some water, much less administer medicines to those who were still alive. After relieving himself in the forest, he returned to camp and sat down heavily on a log that had become his chair.
What was the use? There was no end to this misery in sight. Slumping on his log, he put his chin in his hands. He knew his responsibilities for the day, but suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore. Everyone was going to die anyway – there were only twelve Indians left and they would probably all be dead within the week. Sebastian considered abandoning everything – his livestock, his possessions, the Indians, and even his friend – and continuing on toward Asunción alone, but he knew he did not have the stamina to hike for even one day.
Everywhere around him were signs of death. There were no more children. Life for the Guayuki seemed to have been put on hold. There were half-finished baskets, broken shell necklaces, fans that had been trampled into the mud. Bows and arrows and spears lay discarded beside the owners’ tapy. Plants and grasses, once green and healthy, now wilted and grew brown due to the muck of sickness. He had long since burned all the fiber mats, and now the people simply lay on fresh palm fronds since Sebastian did not know how to weave new mats.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself back home in Spain, when his mother was still alive and when his father was between journeys. He remembered the good times they had and the foods they ate. The special breads his mother could bake, her famous lemon pies, his father’s tales of the adventures he had experienced… Eyes closed, Sebastian could almost believe that he was there again, safe.
A snapping twig forced him to open his eyes.
It was Chachugi, on his hands and knees, crawling toward Sebastian. He asked for something, and then again, his voice strangled and parched. He put his hand to his mouth, repeating the request.
“Water?” asked Sebastian, reaching for the daity.
Chachugi panted from the effort. He put his hand to his mouth again.
“Food! Yes, of course.” But he did not have the strength to rise and prepare the daily stew. “Just a minute. Please.”
Chachugi asked again, and then again, like a baby bird begging for worms.
Sebastian knew he could either be selfish and ignore Chachugi a little while longer, or he could push himself just a little harder and start the day’s work. It always surprised him that, no matter how tired he had been over the past few weeks, he always had the strength to do just a little bit more.
“Just a minute,” he repeated, his own breath coming quicker. He stood up, felt dizzy, and sat down again.
Chachugi watched him. His eyes grew sad. He lay down on the ground, curled up in a fetal position, without saying another word.
Sebastian knew defeat when he saw it. Chachugi was giving up. But he had lived so long, and fought so hard! There were so few of his tribe left – he couldn’t surrender now!
He tried to stand again but was simply too tired to do so. He sat down again. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” As he had done several times on this journey, Sebastian began to feel very sorry - for himself.
He would never survive - not now, certainly not now. If he could not walk, how would he hunt? How would he get to Asunción like this? He would die with the Indians! He would wither away, drinking the water in the daity near him until it was empty, and then he would die a slow death of dehydration. It would take several days, probably about a week, but then he would be dead…
Sebastian stopped himself from thinking those depressing thoughts. He was by no means dying; he was simply exhausted.
Pwaagi’s voice, thin and high, floated on a breeze. She asked the same thing as Chachugi. Soon several other voices joined her, briefly, and then silenced. One voice, however, continued to beg. “Food, Sebastian? Food?”
It was Arazunú! Arazunú had not spoken in Spanish for days, being too feverish to know what he was saying. Neither had he eaten much. But now he was awake and hungry – and coherent!
Sebastian turned his head toward his friend. Arazunú’s pus-filled blisters had dried and fallen off overnight, leaving shallow pits in his skin. His eyes were bright and begging. As Sebastian looked around camp, he saw that the same thing had happened to many of the remaining Indians – their blisters had dried out and fallen off. Most of them, however, had very deep pock-marks in their skin. Their faces looked eerie, like the face of Death itself. Sebastian, however, realized that even though Death had left his mark, these people were alive. Very much still alive!
Gripping a branch above him, Sebastian hauled himself to his feet. He was still dizzy, but he forced himself to start moving. After a dozen strides or so, he realized that he would not be able to go hunting, he was so weak. He would probably pass out in the forest, and then a jaguar would probably eat him. He would have to find food very close to the camp, but how? Hunting was not an option but neither was gathering, since he had depleted the surrounding area of anything edible.
He glanced down at the ground and saw Chachugi watching him. The man still looked sad, but more hopeful. Sebastian could not disappoint him. There must be a way to get food.
Yagua barked his usual morning greeting. It was also a reminder that he was hungry, as were the rest of the livestock.
“Your turn soon,” Sebastian said. “People first.”
Suddenly it occurred to him that food was right in front of his nose – his own livestock, that he had tried to hard to keep safe from danger. Could he? Could he butcher one of his pigs to feed the Indians? There were only seven left from the original fourteen. He had wanted so badly to get all of them to Asunción for his father, but right now they were his only option.
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He withdrew his hunting knife from his belt sheath and approached the smallest of the pigs. He looked at it long and hard. Just one pig would feed the entire village for a week. There were eleven people left, plus Arazunú and Sebastian. Sebastian’s mouth watered as he thought of the delicious pork roasts he would soon have. It had been months since he had eaten fresh pork. Yet he had protected this pig from jaguars and hunters, pirates and snakes. This pig had been with him since he left Spain. All of them had, but the smallest one had the most personality. It was more of a pet than a future meal. However, it would be wasteful to slaughter the larger pigs.
Sebastian placed his hand on the pig’s head. “Sorry about this, buddy. I just… I know that your purpose in life is to be eaten, and I’ve eaten lots of your brothers and sisters, but… well, you’re such a survivor that it hardly seems fair…” He gulped. “I guess I should just stop talking about it and do it, huh?”
He took the pig by the ear, removed the rope from around its neck, and led it away to the other side of camp so that its death would not upset the remaining livestock. Yagua seemed suspicious but stayed where he was.
It only took one quick, deep slice to the neck to kill the pig. Sebastian had expected more of a struggle. He felt almost guilty that the trusting creature now lay dead at his feet.
It took a great deal of effort to string the heavy pig up by its two hind feet and hang it over a tree branch so it could bleed out. Sebastian did not allow himself to think about how tired he was. Even when his hands trembled while he skinned the carcass, he forced himself to be strong. It was well past noon by the time the meat was cut into strips and filets. Dressed out, the pig weighed a little more than Sebastian did – there would definitely be enough meat for the village for a while.
But it would all have to be cooked before it started to rot. Sebastian had to gather more firewood than usual, which meant that the light was nearly gone before he was able to start cooking the meat. Some of it he roasted, some of it he boiled for stew, and the rest of it he laid out on clean fiber mats to dry. The drying meat frightened him - i
ts scent would attract any predator within range. Tired as he was, he knew he had to stay awake during the night with his pistol in case the jaguars decided to try for an easy meal.
The moonlight was at full strength when the boiling meat was ready to be eaten. He removed chunks of pork and cut it into tiny pieces so the Indians wouldn’t have to chew much. Mostly he served them broth, since their stomachs were still weak. Chachugi was delighted with the flavor, although he did not eat a lot.
By morning, most of the remaining Indians were feeling well enough to take solid meat. Their fevers broke, although they still had chills. Even Arazunú was feeling well enough to move himself to a fresh bed of palm fronds. After three weeks of inactivity, many people’s muscles had atrophied a little, causing them great pain and fatigue when they tried to walk. It would be a slow recovery process – but they were the lucky ones.
After another few weeks of care, the Indians were finally able to get themselves off the ground and go for short hunts or gathering sprees. After burning almost all their possessions, they even moved their camp several kilometers away from the Death Site, as it came to be known. The black metal pot that started it all was buried deep in a pit, never to be used again. Before leaving for their new campsite, they performed an ablution ceremony on themselves to cleanse away any remaining disease or evil that still clung to them. Sebastian and Arazunú helped bring back a load of shavings from the kymata vine for the purification ceremony.
Finally, the day came when Sebastian felt comfortable leaving Guayuki. The plague had devastated the tribe, leaving only a third of them alive. They had lost their best weapon makers, their best hunters, and their friends. The five men could still hunt and make weapons, and the six women were still young enough to have more babies. Although he wished to be of further assistance, there was nothing left for Sebastian to do except part ways and hope against hope that the Portuguese would never again find his new friends.