In the shallows the strangers washed themselves. They adjusted fur-and-feather headdresses, seed necklaces and anklets, and bellybands of warm sun-reds and orange. Their face paint, which they freshened and greased, was a dead white, encircling the cheekbone. The men were fully armed with bows and arrows and short lances, and they carried these with them when leaving their canoes.
The procession of grim painted men moved up the bank toward the maloca; their women and children were received with merriment at a rear door. The boy Mutu had learned the names of every headman and recited them in awe to a younger child: “The Ocelot! This one is the fierce Ocelot!”
While waiting to be invited in, the strangers inspected Kisu-Mu, though no man stared at him—whether from politeness, pride or fear he could not tell. Only the one known as the Ocelot, who had stepped aside to speak with Aeore, looked at him pointedly. He was a tall Indian with a narrow restless head low on his shoulders, and he glared from beneath his crown of feathers like an animal about to come out snapping. His whole manner was a taunt: you may have fooled these upstream simpletons, but you are not fooling the great Ocelot of the River Tuaremi. Yet when Moon acknowledged the taunt by stepping forward, the Ocelot turned away.
Now Boronai appeared in full array, wearing a sun crown of white egret plumes; on his chest hung his jaguar incisors and a strange cylindrical ornament of greenish stone. The stone had been drilled from one end to the other, and the drilling had been done with bamboo points. When Moon had doubted this, Boronai explained that the task had occupied two lifetimes. Moon asked where it came from, and Boronai pointed north and east. “Long, long ago,” he said, “in the time of the Ancestors.” The trails there were now lost.
Boronai ignored his guests until they presented themselves formally at the maloca entrance. Here the greetings exchanged took the form of speeches, shrill and ritualized, without warmth, as if host and guest were both prepared for insult. The guests were on no better terms among themselves and were careful not to jostle one another; the feather crowns fairly shook with indignation.
This great silent procession of savages, canoe after canoe, drawn out of the vast forest to the east, stirred Moon to the heart; it filled him unaccountably with sadness. The meager bands and the small stature of these more primitive and horseless Indians did not detract from the true dignity of the Old Ways—ways he had heard about but never seen in the poor shanties of the North American reservations—and now they were meeting in council as had their northern brethren nearly a century before. He felt himself one of them, and proud. This jungle would absorb big Guzmán like a sponge; here, he thought, exulting in the angry, proud, suspicious faces, the Indian can resist indefinitely.
The Yuri Maha gazed at him briefly and impassively, and passed one by one into the maloca.
At twilight the clans sat face to face, exchanging greetings, histories, and insults in the form of compliments. They argued obliquely about fishing rights, disputing the placement of fish dams and weirs and the length of time a dam could be maintained without causing hardship to the clan farther below. Boronai’s clan, as the one farthest upriver, was repeatedly accused of selfishness, although the wording was kept circumspect out of courtesy to the host. “We do not say that you keep weirs across the river pools to steal our fish. We only say, Perhaps your fishers have forgotten. We only say, The clans of Boronai have always been forgetful clans. We only say, There may be a bad feeling.”
Aeore’s willingness to accommodate every grievance perplexed and irritated Boronai; it was only when the young warrior proposed his idea for the federation, and declaimed loudly that his leadership had the support of Kisu-Mu, that Boronai began to understand what was afoot. He gazed at Moon with a wide depthless stare. Moon had not thought that Aeore would mention him, and wished that he had taken pains to consult Boronai in advance. But he had waited too long, and now Boronai felt himself betrayed.
The women kept off by themselves near the rear door of the maloca. They were bored by the slow and solemn rituals, and fretted impatiently for the moment when the men’s drinking would break the feast wide open, when they could hoot and screech and pretend terror of the Masks, when they could dance and sing and flaunt themselves, when they could be fought over, and fornicate. Meanwhile they pushed and giggled, and they screamed with dismay when a huge bark-cloth phallus, part of the dwarf Tutki, blundered into their area and tripped and fell. The phallus lay bewildered on the ground. This Mask had been entrusted to little Mutu, whose head fit so far inside it that he breathed out of the eyeholes; in his blindness the boy had become separated from the Tutki Mask, who was supposed to guide him from behind.
The feast began with violent gorging. The masato was served up by calabash from the huge trough, and Moon drank enough of it to become dizzy. The Indians gulped it in such quantity that every so often each man would vomit to make room for more. They drank and sighed. The anger and lust and vomiting, the intense, excessive feelings were only expressions of life, of being, too great to be contained; this purge was a sacred purpose of the feast. Yet a part of Moon was disgusted, and his disgust kept him outside of things; he felt self-conscious and impatient. He ate crocodile and monkey, but his share of fat weevils he presented to Pindi, who received them gladly as a sign of love; for the rest of the evening, flirtatiously, she threw manioc paste into his face.
Under the moon, dancing had started, and the lines of men stamped up and down, faster and faster, slow steps, then quick ones, to the whistle and discordant rhythms of crude flutes and drums of monkey skins.
Some of the Masks sang as they danced. I wander, forever wander, Turtle sang, and when I get where I yearn to go, I wander once again.
In the middle of the night the women joined the dance; in separate lines, giggling wildly, they pranced up and down, up and down. They paid small attention to drum or flute, and as the evening lengthened the instruments paid no attention to one another, as if the point were not rhythm but pure din. Past, present and proposed liaisons were now under dispute, and Tukanu’s uncle pummeled one rival even as his wife crept off into the darkness with another.
The Yuri Maha also fought among themselves, and finally the discord became general; the fire shuddered and the black walls swelled with voices. Moon, not sober himself, cursed the sprawled leadership of his federation; it did not seem possible that harmony could be drawn out of this ruin. The Yuri Maha were doing all they could to insult their hosts, and finally a drunken headman accosted Boronai himself. It was the Ocelot. He fingered the strange green cylinder of stone hung on Boronai’s chest, exclaiming loudly, “What a beautiful thing! How I wish that I could wear it!” As the stone was unique in the region, and the greatest possession of the village, the man’s behavior was an extreme provocation, forcing Boronai to be inhospitable. In the ritual way, Boronai cried out, “No, no, it is old and useless, you would shame yourself by wearing it!” But the Ocelot exclaimed again over its beauty, and again Boronai exclaimed over its ugliness. In the firelight they faced each other, chest to chest, red and feathered like two giant birds. The exchange was repeated over and over, with small variations, until the tension grew too much for the Yuri Maha; he snatched unsuccessfully at the stone.
The Indians sighed and crowded closer. As loudly as possible without shouting, Boronai said, “My brother wishes this poor stone of my clan, although he knows that it came from the north rivers long ago, and that we have no other, and that for all other clans it has no meaning. Therefore I ask my brother not to desire something which is of no use to him.”
But the Ocelot, very drunk, was not skillful enough to back off without loss of face; he glared about him, trapped. He would have to shout something unforgivable about Boronai’s hospitality, and Boronai, anticipating this, cried quickly, “Here! Wear it as you wish, so that you will know that it is worthless and of no use to you. Then you may leave it here with us!” Boldly, he placed the stone around the other’s neck.
Boronai’s people moaned, for the Yuri
Maha postured foolishly, vaunting his moment, and did not return the stone. But his companions had recognized Boronai’s wisdom and his efforts to save the drunkard’s face; they groaned loudly in disapproval, and the Ocelot removed the stone and draped its string roughly around Boronai’s neck. As he did so, Boronai glanced at Aeore, who had run to the maloca for his weapons. Then he gazed at Moon. Unable to bear the headman’s contemplation, Moon retreated outside the circle of the fire.
In his great drunkenness Tukanu sat himself down beside the Great Spirit of the Rain and laughed jovially into the Great Spirit’s face. In the firelight his eyes flickered with grotesque humors. He told of a “thing” he had once wounded, a “thing” Moon was unable to identify because of the extreme thickness of Tukanu’s speech. Imitating the strange creature, Tukanu crawled dazedly through the shadows, dragging one leg and braying. Then he imitated the brave Tukanu, hauling sternly on his mighty bow—thicnk, thicnk, said Tukanu, to show how solidly his final arrows had punctured the wounded flesh. On his knees he played the thing again, bringing his forefeet up under his chin into a position like prayer and rolling his eyes heavenward, all the while emitting hollow braying groans of fear and agony.
By the time Tukanu pitched forward on his face, Moon realized that what he saw being enacted were the last moments of Padre Fuentes. Acting both roles, the Indian scrambled around like a dog after its tail; he succeeded at last in wrenching a machete from his own corpse and beheading himself with loud coughing grunts accompanying each chop.
Tukanu held up the dripping head. “Kin-wee?” he said, out of breath. “Kin-wee?” In an access of joy and pride he wrapped his arm around the Great Spirit’s neck, embracing him, then tightened his arm and cut off the Great Spirit’s wind; when Moon elbowed him sharply in the ribs he sat back, laughing feverishly, then reached over suddenly and yanked out a twist of the Great Spirit’s hair. On their knees they faced each other, the one in cold tears of pain and fury, the other howling in triumphant glee. Between them fell a sudden and total silence; to Moon, in this moment, the void between himself and the world of Tukanu seemed infinite, beyond all hope of traverse. Tukanu was leering senselessly, conspiratorially; he inched forward. Breath harsh as the scrape of rocks, he stared into the eyes of Moon, who inhaled his savagery like a violent odor: the yellowed eyes, the choked nostrils, the drunken vomit smell, the pores. Now the Indian twisted him by the chin, forcing him to stare into Tukanu’s black pupils, inches away, pupils like pure black holes into the savage brain. Moon swayed in vertigo; through those black holes he was drawn far back to the beginning of the age … The Indian brought him up short by licking his face as a dog licks, and squealing again with laughter.
Tukanu did a somersault, then sprang up to join the dancing, dragging at the Great Spirit of the Rain with a violence not quite playful; Moon yanked free but was seized immediately by other Indians. They meant to include him in their dance, and they laughed and howled encouragement. He stamped up and down, up and down, holding two painted figures by the hands, and grunting and shuddering with the best of them. The Indians sang:
“If we were great beings
If we were not so weak and small
If just once we could dance long and hard with our souls clean
Then we would dance out of our skins like Parami the Butterfly
Then we would fly to that faraway land where there is no flood no pain no death
Then we would fly away into the sky.”
Back, back, back—stamp. Forward, forward, forward—stamp. The exertion had his head spinning; when he raised his eyes to the black fringes of the jungle night, the brilliant stars, he swayed and nearly fell. The man behind him yanked him upright. Peering closely at this face, a violent crisscrossing of red and black, he saw that it was Aeore. “You have painted a new face,” he said. “Tarai,” the Indian said; as of this night, Aeore considered himself a jaguar-shaman, and his jaguar teeth gleamed upon his chest. Moon glanced around for Boronai but did not see him.
Then Aeore went off with Pindi into the bushes; the other Indians laughed and pointed and a few went along to observe the spectacle.
Moon’s humor worsened with each drink. He had watched Pindi as she danced, provoked by her bold smile and tossing hair, the soft skin of her face, the childlike habit of sucking her lower lip inside her teeth, the bold striping of her thighs and hips. She actually reminded him of Andy Huben, and he tried to imagine how Andy would look with curlicues on her behind. Very well indeed, he decided. And he was considering how best to lure Pindi to his side when Aeore, who had been petting her unmercifully, rose and took her by the wrist and led her away from the circle by the fire.
Moon felt annoyance that the Niaruna, drunk or sober, should treat his spiritual presence so casually; it was plain that they were more afraid of Aeore than of Kisu-Mu. Even the faithful Tukanu soon lost interest in him. With the departure of his faithless Taweeda, he had taken up with an old woman; when this salacious elder, her mouth ringed with yellow foam from the masato, came to him and placed her hand upon his groin, he sprang up instantly and was led off into the bushes.
Pindi returned and entered the maloca. Afraid of his own anger, Moon did not call out to her. He weaved stupidly through the ruins of the feast, staring down into the faces of his federation; those Indians who were not off in the undergrowth lay heaped around the fire in a torpor, arms flung about one another like huge children. The slack, broad-featured faces, livid with paint and tapir grease and sweat, stared up at him like so many demonic masks. In the shuddering light, in the groan and fume and pant of breath of sprawled brown bodies, he smelled something infernal, like the stench of dying moths lying burned at the base of a lantern. But the smell was no smell of evil but only of mortal exhaustion, of the renewed and endless and irremediable failure of the Niaruna to escape their doomed flesh, as their legend promised, and dance away into the sky. It was only he who had drunk idly, merely to get drunk. He pitied their innocence with all his heart; yet, gazing at human beings so reduced, he could not restrain disgust and fear.
From the shadows at the corner of the maloca, Aeore was observing him; the Indian did not trouble to conceal himself. They gazed at each other across the flame, in the whisper of night insects. Moon crossed over to him. “Tell me your name,” he ordered, though he had not known that he would say this. Aeore was startled; scowling, he backed into the shadows. Moon sprang at him and bore him to the ground and grasped his wrists. “Tell me your name,” he said. The Indian went wild with fright, rolling and kicking in Moon’s grasp; for once he seemed convinced that Kisu-Mu was a spirit. Moon struggled to hold him, wary of so much fear; the Indian bit him, frenzied. They thrashed and rolled in the fire shadows until Moon’s greater weight exhausted Aeore, who lay back, panting, teeth bared, burning. He had not once cried out. “Tell me your name,” Moon gasped again, but this time he knew that he had lost. He winced angrily and stood up, releasing Aeore, who sprang sideways on all fours before he rose and backed away. In Aeore’s face, emotions fought; if that man could be sure, Moon thought, for just one second, that I am not a spirit, he would kill me on the spot.
In the morning the yard stank with vomit and was aswarm with flies. Moon had a headache, his stomach was sour with masato, and the sourness seeped all through him. He felt poisoned. For the first time since he had joined the tribe he spoke angrily to Pindi. He told her that she took poor care of New Person, that she had not observed the period of quiet that was necessary for the safety of the infant soul, that—he was disgusted with himself as soon as he had said it—she must choose between Aeore and himself, or there would be emita—evil.
The girl crouched on the ground in terror. She begged him to tell her what she must do. And because he did not really care enough about her to command her to leave Aeore, he stood frustrated a moment before he said, “I wish that you take better care of New Person. I wish to know Aeore’s clan name. Then there will be no emita.”
Pindi cried out that Aeore
had no clan name. It was said among the Yuri Maha that he had no father, that his mother had copulated with a spirit in the forest. After the birth she had run away in shame to join her spirit-lover. Each newborn child had been a star whose light thereafter would be missing from the heavens; since the orphan’s parentage was so obscure, he was called Child-Star, which signified that he was nameless.
Moon told her that he must gain power over Aeore in order to control him, for the good of the whole Niaruna federation. This meant nothing to Pindi; she pleaded wildly. To speak Aeore’s name would surely attract harm to him; he might die!
He awaited her in silence. More and more stricken, glancing fearfully about, she said finally, “I will whisper the name.” He bent, and she whispered, “Riri’an,” and then she began to cry.
21
THE CANOES OF THE YURI MAHA HAD SLID AWAY DOWNRIVER, BUT a few of the strangers, the Ocelot among them, lingered in the village to help their new allies drink the last masato. The feast that Moon had thought a shambles had been judged a great success: all agreed that the Niaruna were a mighty nation, that the clans must side against the white man and the Green Indians, that peace must be made with all the tribes east to the Morning Sun. Aeore was acknowledged a jaguar-shaman, and now the Ocelot was trying to reclaim him, as if Aeore had never left the forests of the Yuri Maha.
Aeore had become ever more arrogant; he now spoke openly to the Ocelot of his suspicion of the Great Spirit of the Rains. And it was too late to reverse the course of things.
One morning Mutu found and killed a large fer-de-lance. A ceremonial was called by Boronai, from which the women were excluded—“O Taka ’tdi, we did not wish to do you harm, but only to set you against the enemies of the Forest People”—and the next day Aeore carried the dead snake to the mission and arranged it upon the gift rack in the forest; then he placed a broken arrow on each of the other three racks. He too spoke an incantation, as if Boronai’s speech had been of little consequence; he now wore his new face paint and his jaguar incisors at all times.