I never found out where Puriwariwe, Angelica's brother, lived. I wondered if someone actually called him when he was needed or if he intuited it. Whether he would stay in the shabono for days or weeks, no one knew. There was something reassuring about his presence, about the way he chanted to the hekuras at night, urging the spirits to protect his people, especially the children, who were the most vulnerable of all, from the spells of an evil shapori.
One morning the old shapori walked directly into Etewa's hut. Sitting in one of the empty hammocks, he demanded I show him the treasures I kept hidden in my knapsack.
I was tempted to retort that I kept nothing hidden, but remained silent as I unfastened my basket from the ratter. I knew he was going to ask me for one of the stones and fervently wished it would not be the one Juan Caridad had given me. Somehow I was certain it was the stone that had brought me to the jungle. I feared that if Puriwariwe were to take it from me, Milagros would arrive and take me back to the mission. Or worse, something dreadful might happen to me. I believed implicitly in the stone's protective powers.
Intently the old man studied both the diamond and the stone. He held the diamond against the light. "I want this one," he said, smiling. "It holds the colors of the sky." Stretching in the hammock, the old man placed the diamond and the other stone on his stomach. "Now, I want you to tell me about the shapori Juan Caridad. I want to hear of all the dreams in which this man appeared."
"I don't know if I can remember them all." Glancing at his thin, wrinkled face and emaciated body, I had the vague feeling I had known him longer than I could remember. There was a familiar, tender response in me as his smiling eyes held my gaze. Lying comfortably in my hammock, I began to speak with an easy fluency. Whenever I did not know the Iticoteri word, I filled in with a Spanish one. Puriwariwe did not seem to mind. I had the impression he was more interested in the sound and rhythm of my words than in their actual meaning.
When I finished with my narration, the old man spat out the wad of tobacco Ritimi had prepared for him prior to leaving for work in the gardens. In a soft voice he spoke of the woman shaman Kamosiwe had already told me about. Not only was Imaawami considered a great shapori, but she was also believed to have been a superb hunter and warrior who had raided enemy settlements together with the men.
"Did she have a gun?" I asked, hoping to learn more about her identity. Since I first heard about her, I had been obsessed with the possibility that she might have been a captive white woman. Maybe as far back as the time when the Spaniards first came looking for El Dorado.
"She used a bow and arrows," the old shaman said. "Her mamucori poison was of the best kind."
No matter how I phrased my question, I was unable to learn whether Imaawami was a real person or a being that belonged to a mythological epoch. All the shapori was willing to say was that Imaawami existed a long time ago. I was certain the old man was not being evasive; it was common for the Iticoteri to be vague about past events.
On some evenings, after the women had cooked the last meal, Puriwariwe would sit by the fire in the middle of the clearing. Both young and old gathered around him. I always looked for a spot close to him, for I did not want to miss a word of what he said. In a low, monotonous, nasal tone, he talked about the origin of man, of fire, of floods, of the moon and the sun. Some of these myths I already knew. Yet each time they were recounted it was as if I were listening to a different story. Each narrator embellished, improved upon it according to his own vision.
"Which one is the real myth of creation?" I asked Puriwariwe one evening after he finished the story of Waipilishoni, a woman shaman who had created blood by mixing onoto and water. She had given life to the woodlike bodies of a brother and sister by making them drink this substance. The evening before the shapori had told us that the first Indian was born out of the leg of a manlike creature.
For an instant Puriwariwe regarded me with a perplexed expression. "They are all real," he finally said. "Don't you know that man was created many times throughout the ages?"
I shook my head in amazement. He touched my face and laughed. "Ohoo, how ignorant you still are. Listen carefully. I will tell you of all the times the world was destroyed by fires and floods."
A few days later, Puriwariwe announced that Xorowe, Iramamowe's oldest son, was to be initiated as a shapori. Xorowe was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. He had a slight, agile body and a narrow, delicately featured face in which his deep brown eyes seemed overly large and glowing. Taking only a hammock, he moved into the small hut that had been built for him in the clearing. Since it was believed that hekuras fled from women, no females were allowed near the dwelling- not even Xorowe's mother, grandmother, or his sisters.
A youth who had never been with a woman was chosen to take care of the initiate. It was he who blew epena into Xorowe's nostrils, who saw that the fire was never out, and made sure each day that Xorowe had the proper amount of water and honey, the only food the initiate was allowed. The women always left enough wood outside the shabono, so the boy did not have to search too far. The men were responsible for finding honey. Each day the shapori urged them to go farther into the forest for new sources.
Xorowe spent most of the time inside the hut lying in his hammock. Sometimes he sat on a polished tree trunk Iramamowe had placed outside the dwelling, for he was not supposed to sit on the ground. Within a week, Xorowe's face had darkened from the epena. His once glowing eyes were dull and unfocused. His body, dirty and emaciated, moved with the clumsiness of a drunkard.
Life went on as usual in the shabono, except for the families living closest to Xorowe's hut, who were not allowed to cook meat on their hearths. According to Puriwariwe, hekuras detested the smell of roasting meat, and if they so much as caught a whiff of the offensive odor, they would flee back to the mountains.
Like his apprentice, Puriwariwe took epena day and night. Tirelessly, he chanted for hours, coaxing the spirits into Xorowe's hut, begging the hekuras to cut open the young man's chest. Some evenings Arasuwe, Iramamowe, and others accompanied the old man in his chants.
During the second week, in an uncertain, quivering voice, Xorowe joined in the singing. At first he only sang the hekura songs of the armadillo, tapir, jaguar, and other large animals, which were believed to be masculine spirits. They were the easiest to entice. Next he sang the hekura songs of plants and rocks. And last he sang the songs of the female spirits- the spider, snake, and hummingbird. They were not only the most difficult to lure but, because of their treacherous and jealous nature, were hard to control.
Late one night, when most of the shabono was asleep, I sat outside Etewa's hut, and watched the men chant. Xorowe was so weak one of the men had to hold him up so Puriwariwe could dance around him. "Xorowe, sing louder," the old man urged him. "Sing as loud as the birds, as loud as the jaguars." Puriwariwe danced out of the shabono into the forest. "Xorowe, sing louder," he shouted. "The hekuras dwelling in all the corners of the world need to hear your song."
Three nights later, Xorowe's joyful cries echoed through the shabono: "Father, Father, the hekuras are approaching. I can hear their humming and buzzing. They are dancing toward me. They are opening my chest, my head. They are coming through my fingers and my feet." Xorowe ran out of the hut. Squatting before the old man, he cried, "Father, Father, help me, for they are coming through my eyes and nose."
Puriwariwe helped Xorowe to his feet. They began to dance in the clearing, their thin emaciated shadows spilling across the moonlit ground. Hours later, a despairing scream, the cry of a panic-stricken child, pierced the dawn. "Father, Father, from today on let no woman come near my hut."
"That's what they all say," Ritimi mumbled, getting out of her hammock. She stocked the fire, then buried several plantains under the hot embers. "When Etewa decided to be initiated as a shapori, I had already gone to live with him," she said. "The night he begged Puriwariwe to let no woman near him I went to his hut and drove the hekuras away."
"Why did you do that?"
"Etewa's mother urged me to do it," Ritimi said. "She was afraid he would die. She knew Etewa liked women too much; she knew he would never become a great shapori." Ritimi sat in my hammock. "I will tell you the whole story." She snuggled comfortably against me, then began to speak in a low whisper.
"The night the hekuras entered Etewa's chest, he cried out just as Xorowe did tonight. It is the female hekuras who make such a fuss. They want no woman in the hut. Etewa sobbed bitterly that night, crying out that an evil woman had passed near his hut. I felt quite sad when I heard him say that the hekuras had left him."
"Did Etewa know it was you who had been in his hut?"
"No," Ritimi said. "No one saw me. If Puriwariwe knew, he didn't say. He was aware Etewa would never be a good shapori."
"Why did he get initiated in the first place?"
"There is always the possibility that a man may become a great shapori." Ritimi rested her head against my arm. "That night many men stayed up chanting for the hekuras to return. But the spirits had no desire to come back. They had left not only because Etewa had been soiled by a woman, but because the hekuras were afraid he would never be a good father to them."
"Why does a man get soiled when he goes with a woman?"
"Shapori do," Ritimi said. "I don't know why, because men as well as shapori enjoy it. I believe it's the female hekuras who are jealous and afraid of a man who enjoys women too often." Ritimi went on to explain how a sexually active man had little desire to take epena and chant to the spirits. Male spirits, she explained, were not possessive. They were content if a man took the hallucinogenic snuff before and after a hunt or a raid. "I'd rather have a good hunter and warrior than a good shapori for a husband," she confessed. "Shapori don't like women much."
"What about Iramamowe?" I asked. "He is considered a great shapori, yet he has two wives."
"Ohoo, you are so ignorant. I have to explain everything to you." Ritimi giggled. "Iramamowe does not sleep with his two wives often. His youngest brother, who has no woman of his own, sleeps with one of them." Ritimi looked around to make sure no one was overhearing us. "Have you noticed that Iramamowe often goes into the forest by himself?"
I nodded. "But so do other men."
"And so do women," Ritimi aped me, mispronouncing the words the way I had. I had great difficulty imitating the proper Iticoteri nasal tone, which probably was a result of their usually having tobacco wads in their mouths. "That's not what I mean," she said. "Iramamowe goes into the forest to find what great shapori seek."
"What is that?"
"The strength to travel to the house of thunder. The strength to travel to the sun and come back alive."
"I've seen Iramamowe sleep in the forest with a woman," I confessed.
Ritimi laughed softly. "I will tell you a very important secret," she whispered. "Iramamowe sleeps with a woman the way a shapori does. He takes a woman's energy away, but gives nothing in return."
"Have you slept with him?"
Ritimi nodded. But no matter how much I coaxed and pleaded with her, she would not elaborate any further.
A week later, Xorowe's mother, sisters, aunts, and cousins started to wail in their huts. "Old man," the mother cried, "my son has no more strength. Do you want to kill him of hunger? Do you want to kill him from lack of sleep? It is time you left him alone."
The old shapori paid no attention to their cries. The following evening Iramamowe took epena and danced in front of his son's hut. He alternated between jumping high in the air and crawling on all fours, imitating the fierce growls of a jaguar. He stopped abruptly. With his eyes fixed on some point directly in front of him, he sat on the ground. "Women, women, do not despair," he cried out in a loud, nasal voice. "For a few more days Xorowe has to remain without food. Even though he appears weak, and his movements are clumsy, and he moans in his sleep, he will not die." Standing up, Iramamowe walked toward Puriwariwe and asked him to blow more epena into his head. Then he returned to the same spot where he had been sitting.
"Listen carefully," Ritimi urged me. "Iramamowe is one of the few shapori who has traveled to the sun during his initiation. He has guided others on their first journey. He has two voices. The one you just heard was his own; the other one is that of his personal hekura."
Now Iramamowe's words sprang from deep in his chest; like stones rumbling down a ravine, the words tumbled into the silence of people gathered in their huts. Huddled together in an atmosphere heavy with smoke and anticipation, they seemed to be barely breathing. Their eyes glittered with longing for what the personal hekura of Iramamowe had to say, for what was about to take place in the mysterious world of the initiate.
"My son has traveled into the depths of the earth, and has burned in the hot fires of their silent caves," said Iramamowe's rumbling hekura voice. "Guided by the hekura eyes, he has been led through cobwebs of darkness, across rivers and mountains. They have taught him songs of birds, fishes, snakes, spiders, monkeys, and jaguars.
"Although his eyes and cheeks are sunken, he is strong. Those who have descended into the silent burning caves; those who have traveled beyond the forest mist, will return with their personal hekura in their chest. Those are the ones who will be guided to the sun, to the luminous huts of my brothers and sisters, the hekuras of the sky.
"Women, women, do not cry out his name. Let him go on his journey. Let him depart from his mother and sisters, so he can reach this world of light, which is more exhausting than the world of darkness."
Spellbound, I listened to Iramamowe's voice. No one talked, no one moved, no one looked anywhere but at his figure, sitting rigidly in front of his son's hut. After every pause, his voice rose to a higher pitch of intensity.
"Women, women, do not despair. On his path he will meet those who have withstood the long nights of mist. He will meet those who have not turned back. He will meet those who have not trembled in fear by what they have witnessed during their journey. He will meet those who had their bodies burned and cut up, those who had their bones removed and dried in the sun. He will meet those who did not fall into the clouds on their way to the sun.
"Women, women, do not disturb his balance. My son is about to reach the end of his journey. Do not watch his dark face. Do not look into his hollow eyes that shine with no light, for he is destined to be a solitary man." Iramamowe stood up. Together with Puriwariwe he entered Xorowe's hut, where they spent the rest of the night chanting softly to the hekuras.
A few days later, the youth who had taken care of Xorowe during his long weeks of initiation washed him with warm water and dried him with fragrant leaves. Then he painted his body with a mixture of coals and onoto- wavy lines extending from his forehead down his cheeks and shoulders. The rest of his body was marked with evenly distributed round spots that reached to his ankles.
For a moment Xorowe stood in the middle of the clearing. His eyes shone sadly from their hollow sockets, filled with an immense melancholy, as if he had just realized he was no longer his former human self, but only a shadow. Yet there was an aura of strength about him that had not been there before, as if the conviction of his newfound knowledge and experience were more enduring than the memory of his past. Silently Puriwariwe led him into the forest.