City of the Beasts

  Thousands of miles away in a hospital in Texas, Lisa was receiving her chemotherapy. She tried not to think about the drug that, like a poison, flowed through her veins to fight the worse poison of her illness. To distract herself, she was concentrating on each note of the flute concerto she was listening to, the one she had heard her son rehearsing so many times. At the same moment that Alex, in his delirium, was dreaming about her deep in the jungle, Lisa saw her son with absolute clarity. She saw him in the doorway of her room, taller and stronger, more mature and more handsome than she remembered. Lisa had called him so often in her thoughts that she was not surprised to see him. She didn’t ask how or why he had come, she simply gave herself to the pleasure of having him at her side. “Alexander . . . Alexander . . . ,” she murmured. She held out her hands and he moved forward to touch her; he knelt beside the chair and put his head on her knees. As Lisa repeated her son’s name and stroked the back of his neck, from the earphones, through the diaphanous notes of the flute, she heard his voice asking her to fight, not to give in to death, telling her over and over, I love you, Momma.

  Alexander’s meeting with his mother might have lasted an instant or several hours, neither of the two knew for sure. When finally they said good-bye and returned to the material world, they were strengthened. Shortly afterward, John entered his wife’s room and was surprised to find her smiling, and with color in her cheeks.

  “How do you feel, Lisa?” he asked with concern.

  “Happy, John, because Alex was here,” she replied.

  “Lisa, what are you saying . . . ? Alexander is in the Amazon with my mother, don’t you remember?” her husband murmured, frightened about the effect the medication might be having on his wife.

  “Yes, I remember, but that doesn’t change the fact that he was here a moment ago.”

  “That isn’t possible,” her husband rebutted.

  “He’s grown, he looks much taller and stronger, but his left arm is very swollen . . . ,” she told John, and closed her eyes to rest.

  In the middle of the South American continent, in the Eye of the World, Alexander awoke. It was several minutes before he recognized the golden girl bending over him to give him water.

  “You are a man now, Jaguar,” said Nadia, smiling to see him back among the living.

  Walimai prepared a paste of medicinal plants and applied it to Alex’s arm, and within a matter of hours, the fever and swelling had subsided. The shaman explained that just as there are poisons in the jungle that kill without leaving a trace, there are thousands and thousands of natural remedies. Alex described his mother’s illness and asked Walimai if he knew of any plant that could help her.

  “There is a sacred plant, but it must be mixed with the water of health,” the shaman replied.

  “Can I find the water and that plant?”

  “Maybe yes and maybe no. You must perform many labors.”

  “I will do anything I have to!” Alex exclaimed.

  The next day Alex was bruised, and a red pimple marked each ant bite, but he was on his feet and hungry. When he recounted his experience to Nadia, she told him that the girls of the tribe did not go through an initiation ceremony because they didn’t need it; women know when they have left their childhood behind because their body bleeds and tells them.

  This was one of those days when Tahama and his companions had not had good luck with the hunt, and the tribe had only maize and a few fish. Alex decided that if he had eaten anaconda on a spit, he should be able to eat the fish, even though it was covered with scales and spines. Surprised, he discovered that he liked it. “And to think that I have deprived myself of this delicious treat for more than fifteen years!” he exclaimed at the second mouthful. Nadia told him to eat well; they would be leaving the following day with Walimai on a journey to the world of the spirits, where there might not be food for the body.

  “Walimai says we’re going to the sacred mountain where the gods live,” she said.

  “What will we do there?”

  “We’re going to look for the three crystal eggs I saw in my vision. Walimai believes that the eggs will save the People of the Mist.”

  Their journey began at dawn, as soon as the first light appeared in the sky. Walimai went first, accompanied by his beautiful angel-wife, who sometimes walked hand in hand with the shaman and other times fluttered like a butterfly over his head, always silent and smiling. Alexander was proudly armed with a bow and some arrows, new weapons given to him by Tahama at the end of the rite of initiation. Nadia carried a gourd with plantain soup and some cassava flatbread Iyomi had given them for the trek. The witch man did not need provisions, everyone said that in old age he ate very little. He did not seem human: He nourished himself with sips of water and a few nuts that he sucked for long periods between his toothless gums, and he scarcely slept, yet he had strength enough to keep going when the young people were dropping with fatigue.

  They started off through the tree-covered plains of the altiplano in the direction of the highest of the tepuis, a black, shining tower like an obsidian sculpture. Alex consulted his compass and learned that they were heading due east. There was no visible path, but Walimai plunged through the undergrowth with awesome certainty, orienting himself among trees, valleys, hills, rivers, and waterfalls as if he were carrying a map in his hand.

  As they advanced, the landscape changed. Walimai told them that this was the kingdom of the Mother of Waters, and in truth there was an incredible wealth of cascades and waterfalls. As yet, the garimpeiros had not arrived here in search of gold and precious stones, but it was only a question of time. The miners worked in groups of four or five and were too poor to pay for transport by air; they explored the obstacle-filled terrain on foot or paddled the rivers in canoes. There were, however, men like Mauro Carías who had modern resources and who knew about the enormous riches in this part of the country. The only thing that stopped them from exploiting the land, mining with giant pressure hoses that destroyed the forests and transformed the countryside into a mud pit, were new laws that protected the environment and the indigenous peoples. The former were violated constantly, but it was not as easy any longer to do that with the latter; the eyes of the world were on these Indians of the Amazon, the last survivors of the Stone Age. They could not be gunned down—as they had been until only recently—without causing an international reaction.

  Alex thought once again how important Dr. Omayra Torres’s vaccines were, and about his grandmother’s reporting for International Geographic, which would alert other countries to the situation of the Indians.

  What did those three crystal eggs mean that Nadia had seen in her dream? Why did they have to make this journey with the shaman? It seemed to Alex that it would be more useful to try to rejoin the expedition, recover the vaccines, and have his grandmother publish her article. Iyomi had appointed him “chief for negotiating with the nahab and their birds of noise and wind,” but instead of fulfilling that purpose, he was getting farther and farther away from civilization. There was no logic at all in what they were doing, he thought with a sigh. Before him rose the mysterious and solitary tepuis, like constructs from another planet.

  The three travelers walked from sunup to sunset, maintaining a fast pace, stopping only to rest their feet or drink from the rivers. Alex tried to shoot a toucan perched a few feet away on a branch, but missed. Then he aimed at a monkey that was so close he could see its yellow teeth, but again missed the mark. The monkey made openly sarcastic faces in response. He considered what little good his brand-new warrior’s weapons were; if his companions had to depend on him for food, they would die of starvation. Walimai pointed to some nuts, which were very tasty, and fruit on a tree that they were unable to reach.

  The toes on the Indians’ feet were widely separated, strong, and flexible; they could climb smooth trunks with incredible agility. Those same feet, with skin as tough as crocodile hide, were also very sensitive; they used their toes even in weaving baskets or rop
e. In the village, children began to climb as soon as they could stand; Alex, in contrast, with all his experience in climbing mountains, could not get up a tree to pick fruit. Walimai, Nadia, and Borobá were weeping with laughter at his failed attempts, and not one of them showed a drop of sympathy when he took a fall, bruising his bottom and his pride. He felt as heavy and clumsy as an elephant.

  At dusk, after many hours of walking, Walimai indicated they could rest. He walked into the river up to his knees and stood motionless and silent until the fish forgot his presence and began to dart around him. When he had the prey within reach, he speared it with his short lance and handed Nadia a beautiful silvery fish, its tail still flicking.

  “How did he do that so easily?” Alex wanted to know, humiliated by his earlier failures.

  “He asks the fish’s permission and explains that he has to kill it out of necessity. Afterward he thanks it for offering its life so that we can live,” she clarified.

  Before this journey, Alex would have jeered at such thoughts. Now he was absorbing what Nadia was saying.

  “It understands because that fish has eaten other fish; now it is its turn to be eaten. That’s how it goes,” she added.

  The shaman built a small fire for them to cook their meal, which revived them, but he took nothing but water. Nadia and Alex slept curled together among the strong roots of a tree. There was no time to set up the hammocks made with strips of bark, as they had in the village; they were tired and they had to start early the next day. Every time one of them moved, the other wiggled around to get as close as possible and share their warmth during the night. In the meantime, the aged Walimai, squatting motionless on his haunches, spent those hours observing the heavens; his wife stayed by his side like a transparent fairy, clothed in nothing but her dark hair.

  When the young people awakened, the Indian was in exactly the same position he had been the night before; invulnerable to cold or exhaustion. Through Nadia, Alex asked him how long he had lived, and where he got his energy and amazing health. The ancient explained that he had seen many children born who became grandfathers, and had seen those grandfathers die and their grandchildren born. How many years? He shrugged his shoulders; it didn’t matter and he didn’t know. He said that he was the messenger of the gods; he was used to going to the world of the immortals where the illnesses that kill men do not exist. Alex remembered the legend of El Dorado, where there was not only fabulous wealth but also the fountain of eternal youth.

  “My mother is very sick . . . ,” Alex murmured, moved by the memory. The experience of having been mentally transported to the hospital in Texas to be with her had been so real that he recalled every detail, from the medicinal smell of the room to Lisa’s thin legs beneath the sheet, where he had laid his head.

  “We all die,” said the shaman.

  “Yes, but she is young.”

  “Some go young, others when they are ancient. I have lived too long, I would like for my bones to rest in the memory of others,” said Walimai.

  At noon on the following day, they reached the base of the highest tepui in the Eye of the World, a giant whose peak was lost in a thick crown of white clouds. Walimai explained that the peak was never cloudless and that no one, not even the powerful Rahakanariwa, had visited that place without being invited by the gods. He added that for thousands of years, from the beginning of life, when human beings were formed from the heat of the Sun Father, the blood of the Moon, and the clay of Mother Earth, the People of the Mist had known of the existence of the dwelling of the gods on that mountain. In every generation, there was one person, always a shaman who had performed many acts of penance, who was chosen to visit the tepui and serve as messenger. That role had fallen to him. He had been there many times, he had lived with the gods, and he knew their customs. He was worried, he told them, because he had not as yet trained his successor. If he should die, who would that messenger be? On each of his spiritual voyages, he had looked for him, but no vision had come to his aid. Not just anyone could be trained, it had to be someone born with the soul of a shaman, someone who had the power to heal, to give counsel, and to interpret dreams. That person demonstrated his talent from an early age; he had to be very disciplined to resist temptations and govern his body: a good shaman was free of desires and needs. This, in brief, is what the young people understood of the witch man’s long oration; he spoke in circles, repeating himself, as if he were reciting an endless poem. It was clear to them, however, that only he was authorized to cross the threshold of the world of the gods, although on one or two extraordinary occasions, other Indians had entered with him. This would be the first time foreign visitors had been admitted since the beginning of time.

  “What is it like, the land of the gods?” Alex asked.

  “Larger than the largest of the shabonos, gleaming and yellow like the sun.”

  “El Dorado! Could it be the legendary city of gold the conquistadors were looking for?” Alex asked eagerly.

  “Maybe yes and maybe no,” answered Walimai. He had no point of reference with which to compare a city, to recognize gold, or to imagine the conquistadors.

  “And what are the gods like? Are they like the creature we call the Beast?”

  “Maybe yes and maybe no.”

  “Why have you brought us here?”

  “Because of the visions. The People of the Mist can be saved by an eagle and a jaguar; that is why you have been invited to the secret dwelling of the gods.”

  “We will be worthy of that confidence. We will never reveal the entrance,” Alex promised.

  “You will not be able to. If you come out alive, you will forget it,” the Indian replied simply.

  If I come out alive . . . Alex hadn’t ever considered dying young. Deep down, he thought of death as something disagreeable that happened to other people. Despite the dangers he had confronted during the last weeks, he had never doubted he would be reunited with his family. He had, in fact, been shaping the stories of his adventures to tell, although he did not have much hope of being believed when he told them. Who among his friends would be able to imagine that he had been among Indians of the Stone Age and that he might even have found El Dorado?

  There at the base of the tepui, Alex realized that life is filled with surprises. He had never believed in destiny, it seemed a fatalistic concept; instead he had believed that each of us is free to make of his life what he will, and he was determined to do something very good with his; to triumph and to be happy. Now all of that seemed absurd. He couldn’t put his trust in reason after having experienced the hazy territory of dreams, intuition, and magic. Destiny was a fact, and there were times you had to jump into an adventure and get out whatever way you could, the way he had when he was four and his grandmother had pushed him into the pool and he had had to swim or else. There was no other way but to dive into the mysteries that lay ahead. Once again, he was aware of the risks. He was alone in the middle of the most remote region of the planet, where the rules he was used to didn’t count. He had to admit it: His grandmother had done him a huge favor when she dragged him from the security of California and threw him out into this strange world. It wasn’t only Tahama and his fire ants that had initiated him into adulthood, the ineffable Kate had done her part, too.

  Walimai left his two companions on this journey resting beside a stream with instructions to wait for him. In this area of the altiplano, the trees were less dense, and the midday sun fell on their heads like lead. Nadia and Alex jumped into the water, frightening the electric eels and turtles resting on the bottom, while Borobá hunted flies and scratched his fleas on the bank. Alex felt absolutely comfortable with this girl; he enjoyed being with her and trusted her, and in this setting she knew much more than he did. It seemed strange to feel so much admiration for someone his sister’s age. At times he was tempted to compare her with Cecilia Burns, but he didn’t know how to begin; they were totally different. Cecilia Burns would be as lost in the jungle as Nadia Santos would be in
a city.

  Cecilia had developed early, and at fifteen she already looked like a young woman. He was not the only one in love with her, all the guys in their school had the same fantasies. Nadia, in contrast, was still as tall and slim as a reed, without any feminine curves, nothing but bone and tanned skin, an androgynous being who carried the scent of the jungle. Despite her childish looks, she inspired respect: She had poise and dignity. Maybe because she didn’t have any sisters or friends her own age, she acted like an adult. She was serious, silent, focused, and did not have the annoying ways that bothered Alex so much in other girls. He hated it when the girls whispered and giggled among themselves; it made him feel insecure, sure that they were making fun of him. “We’re not always talking about you, Alexander. We have more interesting things to think of,” Cecilia Burns had said once in front of the whole class. He knew Nadia would never embarrass him that way.

  The aged shaman returned a few hours later, as fresh and serene as always, with two thick sticks dipped in a resin similar to the one the Indians had used when climbing the sides of the waterfall. He announced that he had found the entrance to the mountain of the gods, and then after hiding the bow and arrows, which could not be carried there, he bid them follow him.

  At the base of the tepui, the primary growth was enormous ferns, which grew as tangled as burlap. They moved forward cautiously and slowly, parting the leaves and opening a path with difficulty. Once beneath those gigantic plants, the sky disappeared and they sank into a universe of green; time stopped and reality lost its familiar forms. They were in a labyrinth of palpitating leaves, of sweet-scented dew, of phosphorescent insects and succulent flowers that dripped a thick blue honey. The air was as heavy as the breath of a beast. There was a constant humming, stones burned like coals, and the earth was the color of blood. Alexander held on to Walimai’s shoulder with one hand and grasped Nadia with the other, aware that if they got separated by a few inches, the ferns would swallow them up and they would never find each other again. Borobá was clinging to his mistress, silent and alert. They had to brush away from their eyes the delicate spiderwebs embroidered with mosquitoes and dewdrops suspended like lace among the leaves. They could barely see their own feet, so they stopped wondering about the sticky, warm substance that they were sinking into up to their ankles.