At the sound of approaching steps, Tutemi motioned me to lower myself beside the moldy leaves of the squash vines. "It's the raiding party," she whispered. "Women are not supposed to see from which direction the warriors return."
Unable to curb my curiosity, I slowly stood up. There were three women with the men: one of them was pregnant.
"Don't look," Tutemi pleaded, pulling me down. "If you see the path on which the raiders return, the enemy will capture you."
"How beautiful the men look with the bright feathers streaming from their armbands, and the onoto designs on their bodies," I said. "But Etewa is missing! Do you think he has been killed?" I asked in dismay.
Tutemi looked at me, a dazed expression on her face. There was no nervousness in her movements as she separated the large squash leaves to peek at the retreating figures. Her anxious face beamed with a smile as she grabbed my arm. "Look, there is Etewa." She pulled my head close to hers so I could see where she was pointing. "He is unucai."
Trailing a distance behind the others, Etewa walked slowly, with his shoulders hunched forward as if he were burdened by a heavy weight on his back. He was not adorned with feathers or paint. Only short little sticks of arrow cane were stuck through his pierced earlobes and one arrow cane stick was tied to each wrist like a bracelet.
"Is he ill?"
"No! He is unucai," she said admiringly. "He has killed a Mocototeri."
Unable to share Tutemi's excitement, I could only stare at her in dumb incredulity. I felt my eyes fill with tears, and turned my gaze away from her. We waited until Etewa was out of sight, then slowly headed toward the shabono.
Tutemi quickened her pace upon hearing the welcoming shouts from the men and women in the huts. Surrounded by the exultant Iticoteri, the raiders stood proudly in the clearing. Turning away from her husband, Arasuwe's youngest wife approached the three captive women, who had not been included in the jubilant greetings. Silently they stood apart, their apprehensive gazes fixed on the approaching Iticoteri woman.
"Painted with onoto- how disgusting," Arasuwe's wife yelled. "What else can one expect from a Mocototeri woman? Do you think you have been invited to a feast?" Glaring at the three women, she picked up a stick. "I will beat you all. If I had been captured, I would have run away," she shouted.
The three Mocototeri huddled closer to each other.
"At least I would have arrived crying pitifully," Arasuwe's wife hissed, pulling the hair of one of the women.
Arasuwe stepped in between his wife and the Mocototeri. "Leave them alone. They have cried so much they have soaked the path with their tears. We made them stop. We didn't want to listen to their wails." Arasuwe took the stick away from his wife. "We demanded they paint their faces and bodies with onoto. These women will be happy here. They will be treated well!" He turned to the rest of the Iticoteri women who had gathered around his wife. "Give them something to eat. They are hungry like us. We haven't eaten for two days."
Arasuwe's wife was not intimidated. "Were your men killed?" she asked the three women. "Did you burn them? Have you eaten their ashes?" She faced the pregnant woman. "Was your husband also killed? Do you expect an Iticoteri man to become a father to your child?"
Pushing his wife roughly away, Arasuwe announced, "Only one man was killed. He was shot by Etewa's arrow. He was the man who killed Etewa's father the last time the Mocototeri raided us so treacherously." Arasuwe turned to the pregnant woman. There was no sympathy in his eyes or in his voice as he continued, "You were captured by the Mocototeri some time ago. You have no brothers among them who will rescue you. You are now an Iticoteri. Do not cry any longer." Arasuwe went on to explain to the three captives that they would be better off with his people. The Iticoteri, he stressed, had enjoyed meat almost every day as well as plenty of roots and plantains throughout the rainy season. No one had gone hungry.
One of the captives was only a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven years old. "What will happen to her?" I asked Tutemi.
"Like the others, she will be taken as a wife," Tutemi said. "I was probably her age when I was abducted by the Iticoteri." A wistful little smile curved her lips. "I was lucky Ritimi's mother-in-law chose me as a second wife for Etewa. He has never beaten me. Ritimi treats me like a sister. She does not quarrel with me, nor does she make me work too..." Tutemi broke in midsentence as Arasuwe's youngest wife resumed her shouting at the Mocototeri women.
"How disgusting to come all painted. All you need is to stick flowers in your ears and start to dance." She followed the three women into her husband's hut. "Did the men rape you in the forest? Is that why you stayed away so long? You must have enjoyed it." Pushing the pregnant woman, she added, "Did they also sleep with you?"
"Shut up!" Arasuwe yelled, "or I'll beat you till I draw blood." Arasuwe turned to the women who had followed behind. "You should rejoice that your men have returned unharmed. You should be content that Etewa has killed a man, that we have brought three captives. Go to your huts and prepare food for your men."
Grumbling, the women dispersed to their respective hearths.
"Why is only Arasuwe's wife so upset?" I asked Tutemi.
"Don't you know?" she asked, smiling maliciously. "She is afraid he will take one of the women as his fourth wife."
"Why does he want so many?"
"He is powerful," Tutemi stated categorically. "He has many sons-in-law who bring plenty of game and help him work in the gardens. Arasuwe can feed many women."
"Were the captives raped?" I asked.
"One was." Tutemi was momentarily puzzled by my shocked expression, then went on to explain that a captured woman was usually raped by all the men in the raiding party. "It's the custom."
"Did they also rape the young girl?"
"No," Tutemi said casually. "She is not yet a woman. Neither did they rape the pregnant one- they are never touched."
Ritimi had remained in her hammock throughout the whole commotion. She told me she had no reason to get worked up about the Mocototeri women, for she knew Etewa would not take a third wife. I was happy to notice that her sadness and dejection, which had been so much a part of her during the last few days, had vanished.
"Where is Etewa?" I asked. "Is he not coming to the shabono"
Ritimi's eyes appeared almost feverish with excitement as she explained that her husband, since he had killed an enemy, was searching for a tree not too far from the settlement on which he could hang his old hammock and quiver. However, before he could do so, he had to strip the tree's trunk and branches of its bark.
Ritimi's eyes expressed a deep concern as she faced me. She warned me against gazing at such a tree. She was certain I would not confuse it with the kind that is stripped of its bark to make troughs and canoes. Those trees, she explained, still looked like trees. Whereas the ones stripped by a man who has killed looked like a ghostly shadow, all white among the greenness around them, with hammock and quiver, bow, and arrows dangling from the peeled branches. Spirits- evil ones in particular- liked hiding in the vicinity of such places. I had to promise Ritimi that if I ever found myself in the neighborhood of such a tree, I would run from the spot as fast as possible.
In a voice so low I thought she was talking to herself, Ritimi confided her fears to me. She hoped Etewa would not collapse under the weight of the man he had killed. The hekuras of a slain man lodge themselves in the killer's chest, where they remain until the dead man's relatives have burned the body and eaten the pulverized bones. The Mocototeri would postpone for as long as possible the burning of the body in the hope that Etewa would die from weakness.
"Will the men talk about the raid?" I asked.
"As soon as they have eaten," Ritimi said.
With his bow and arrows in hand, Etewa walked across the clearing toward the hut where Iramamowe's son had been initiated as a shaman. The men who had been with Etewa on the raid covered the sides of the hut with palm fronds. Only a small entrance was left open at the front. They brought him a water-filled calabash and built a fire inside.
Etewa was to remain in the hut until Puriwariwe would announce that the dead Mocototeri had been burned. Day and night Etewa had to be on the alert in case the dead man's spirit came prowling about the hut in the form of a jaguar. Were Etewa to talk, touch a woman, or eat during those days, he would die.
Old Hayama, accompanied by her daughter-in-law, came into our hut. "I want to find out what's going on at Arasuwe's place," the old woman said, sitting beside me. Xotomi sat on the ground, reclining her head against my legs, dangling from my hammock. A purple scar- a reminder of the arrow wound- marred the smooth line of her calf. That did not worry Xotomi: She was grateful the wound had not become infected.
"Matuwe caught one of the women," Hayama said proudly. "It's a good time for him to get another wife. I'd better select the right one for him. I'm sure he will make a mistake if it's left up to him to make the choice."
"But he has a wife," I stammered, looking at Xotomi.
"Yes," the old woman agreed. "But if he is to have a second wife, this is the best time. Xotomi is young. It will be easy for her to be friends with another woman now. Matuwe should take the youngest of the three captives." Hayama brushed her hand over Xotomi's shaven tonsure. "The girl is younger than you. She will obey you. If you menstruate, she can cook for us. She can help you in the gardens and with the gathering of wood. I'm getting too old to work much."
Xotomi examined the three Mocototeri women in Arasuwe's hut. "If Matuwe is to take another wife, I wish him to take the young girl. I will like her. She can warm his hammock when I'm pregnant."
"Are you?" I asked.
"I'm not certain," she said, smiling smugly.
Hayama had told me some time ago that a pregnant woman usually waited three to four months, sometimes even longer, before telling her husband of her state. The man was a tacit accomplice in this deception, for he also dreaded the restrictive food and behavior taboos. Whenever a woman suffered a miscarriage or gave birth to a deformed child, she was never at fault. It was the husband who was always blamed. In fact, if a woman repeatedly bore a sickly infant, she was encouraged to conceive by another man. Her own husband, however, had to obey the taboos and raise the baby as his own.
Hayama went over to Arasuwe's hut. "I will take this Mocototeri girl with me. She will make a fine wife for my son," she said, taking the girl by the hand. "She will live with me in my hut."
"I captured a woman," Matuwe said. "I don't want this child. She is too thin. I want a strong woman who will bear healthy sons."
"She will grow strong," Hayama said calmly. "She is still green, but soon she will be ripe. Look at her breasts. They are already large. Besides," she added, "Xotomi will not mind it you take her." Hayama faced the men gathered inside and outside Arasuwe's hut. "No one is to touch her. I will take care of her until she becomes my Son's wife. From today on she is my daughter-in-law."
No objections were raised by the men as Hayama took the girl into our hut. Shyly, the Mocototeri sat on the ground, close to the hearth. "I will not beat you," Xotomi said, taking the girl's hand in hers. "But you must do what I tell you."
Matuwe grinned sheepishly at us across the hut. I wondered if he was proud to have two wives, or actually embarrassed to be forced into taking a child when he had captured a woman.
"What will happen to the other captives?" I asked.
"Arasuwe will take the pregnant one," Hayama declared.
"How do you know?" Without waiting for her answer, I asked about the third one.
"She will be given to someone as a wife after she has been taken by any of the men in the shabono who wish to do so," Hayama said.
"But she has already been raped by the raiders," I said indignantly.
Old Hayama burst into laughter. "But not by the men who didn't participate in the raid." The old woman patted my head. "Don't look so stricken. It is the custom. I was captured once. I was raped by many men. I was lucky and found a chance to escape. No, don't interrupt me, white girl," Hayama said, putting her hand over my mouth. "I didn't run away because I had been raped. I forgot that very fast. I escaped because I had to work too hard and was not given enough food."
As the old woman had predicted, Arasuwe took the pregnant woman for himself.
"You have three wives already," the youngest one shouted, her face contorted in anger. "Why do you want another one?"
Giggling nervously, Arasuwe's two other wives watched from their hammocks as the youngest pushed the pregnant woman on the burning coals of the hearth. Arasuwe jumped out of his hammock, took a burning log from the fire, and handed it to the fallen Mocototeri woman. "Burn my wife's arm," he urged the Mocototeri woman as he held his youngest wife pinned against one of the poles in the hut. Sobbing, the pregnant woman covered her burned shoulder with her hand.
"Burn me!" Arasuwe's wife dared her, twisting away from her husband's grip. "If you do, I will burn you alive- but no one will eat your bones. I shall scatter them in the forest, so we can piss on them..." She stopped, her eyes widened in genuine astonishment as she discovered the extent of the woman's injured shoulder. "You are really burnt! Does it hurt much?"
Looking up, the Mocototeri wiped the tears from her face. "I'm in great pain."
"Oh, you poor woman." Solicitously, Arasuwe's wife helped her to stand up, guiding her over to her own hammock. She took leaves from a calabash and gently placed them on the woman's shoulder. "It will heal very fast. I will make sure of it."
"Don't weep any longer," Arasuwe's oldest wife said, sitting next to the Mocototeri woman. She patted her leg affectionately. "Our husband is a good man. He will treat you well. I will make sure no one in the shabono mistreats you."
"What will happen when the baby is born?" I asked Hayama.
"That's hard to say," the old woman conceded. She remained quiet for a moment as if deep in thought. "She may kill it. Yet it it is a boy Arasuwe might ask his oldest wife to raise him as if it were his own."
Hours later, Arasuwe began his tale about the events of the raid. He talked in a slow, nasal tone. "We traveled slowly the first day and stopped to rest often. Our backs ached from the heavy loads of plantains. That first night we hardly slept, for we didn't have enough firewood to keep warm. The rain fell with such force the night sky seemed to melt with the darkness around us. The following day we walked somewhat faster, arriving in the vicinity of the Mocototeri settlement. We were still far enough away that the enemy hunters would not discover our presence that night, yet close enough that we didn't dare light a fire in our camp."
I could only see Arasuwe's face in profile. Fascinated, I watched the red and black designs on his cheeks moving animatedly with the rhythm of his speech, as if they had a life of their own. The feathers in his earlobes added a softness to his stern, tired face, a playfulness that belied the horror of his tale.
"For a few days we carefully watched the comings and goings of our enemy. Our aim was to kill a Mocototeri without alarming their shabono of our presence. One morning we saw the man who had killed Etewa's father walk into the thicket after a woman. Etewa shot him in the stomach with one of his poisoned arrows. The man was so dazed he did not even shout. By the time he recovered from his surprise, Etewa had shot a second arrow in his stomach and another in his neck, right behind his ear. He fell on the ground, dead.
"Walking like a stunned man, Etewa headed home, accompanied by my nephew. Meanwhile Matuwe had found the woman hiding in the thicket. He threatened to kill her if she so much as opened her mouth to cough. Matuwe, together with my youngest son-in-law, headed toward our settlement with the reluctant woman. We were all to meet later at a predetermined location.
As the rest of us were deciding whether to split into even smaller groups, we saw a mother with her little son, a pregnant woman, and a young girl, all heading into the forest. We could not resist the temptation. Quietly, we followed them." Leaning back in his hammock, hands locked behind his head, Arasuwe regarded his spellbound audience.
Taking advantage of the headman's pause, one of the men who had been on the raid stood up. Motioning the people to make space for him to move, he opened his narration with exactly the same words Arasuwe used. "We traveled slowly the first day."
But that was all his and the headman's narratives had in common. Gesticulating a great deal, the man mimicked with exaggerated flare the moods and expressions of different members of the raiding party, thus adding a touch of humor and melodrama to Arasuwe's dry, matter-of-fact rendition.
Encouraged by his audience's laughter and cheers, the man told at great length about the two youngest members of the raiding party. They were no older than sixteen or seventeen. Not only had they complained of sore feet, the cold, and their aches and pains, but they had been afraid of prowling jaguars and spirits on the second night when they had all slept without lighting a fire. The man interspersed his account with detailed information on the variety of game and ripening wild fruit- color, size, and shape- he had spotted on the way.
Arasuwe resumed his own report as soon as the man paused. "When the three women and the girl were far enough from the shabono," the headman continued, "we threatened to shoot them if they tried to run away or scream. The small boy managed to sneak into the bushes. We did not pursue him, but retreated as fast as possible, making sure not to leave footprints behind. We were sure that as soon as the Mocototeri discovered the dead man they would follow us.
"Just before dusk, the mother of the boy who had sneaked away cried out in pain. Sitting on the ground, she pressed her foot between her hands. She wept bitterly, complaining that a poisonous snake had bitten her. Her heartbreaking wails saddened us so much we did not even make sure there had been a snake. 'What good has it been,' she sobbed, 'for my little son to run away if he no longer has a mother to take care of him?' Screaming that she could not bear the pain any longer, the woman hobbled into the bushes. It took us a moment to realize we had been tricked. We searched the forest thoroughly, but we couldn't discover in which direction she had fled."
Old Kamosiwe laughed heartily. "It's good that she tricked you. It never pays to abduct a woman who has left behind a small child. They cry until they become ill and, worse: They almost always escape."
The men talked until the rainy dawn enshrouded the shabono. In the middle of the clearing stood the solitary hut where Etewa was enclosed. It was so quiet and apart- so close, yet so far removed from the voices and laughter.
A week later, Puriwariwe visited Etewa. As soon as he had eaten a baked plantain and honey, the old man asked Iramamowe to blow epena into his head. Chanting, Puriwariwe danced around Etewa's hut. "The dead man has not yet been burned," he announced. "His body has been placed in a trough. It is rotting high up in a tree. Do not break your silence yet. The hekuras of the dead man are still in your chest. Prepare your new arrows and bow. Soon the Mocototeri will burn the rotting flesh for the worms are already crawling out of the carcass." The old shapori circled Etewa's hut once more, then danced across the clearing into the forest.
Three days later, Puriwariwe announced that the Mocototeri had burned the dead man. "Take out the sticks from your earlobes, untie the ones from your wrists," he said, helping Etewa stand up. "In a few days take your old bow and arrows to the same peeled tree on which you hung your hammock and quiver."
Puriwariwe led Etewa into the forest. Arasuwe, together with some of the men who had been on the raid, followed behind.
They returned in the late afternoon. Etewa's hair had been cut, his tonsure shaven. His body had been washed and painted afresh with onoto. Cane rods, decorated with red macaw feathers, had been inserted in his earlobes. He also wore the new fur armbands, adorned with feathers, and the thick cotton waist belt Ritimi had made for him. Arasuwe offered Etewa a basket full of tiny fish he had cooked for him in pishaansi leaves.
Three days later, Etewa ventured for the first time by himself into the forest. "I've shot a monkey," he announced hours later, standing in the clearing. As soon as a group of men had gathered around him, he gave them precise information as to where the animal could be found.
To insure the aid and protection of the hekuras during future hunts, Etewa went two more times by himself into the forest. On each occasion he returned without the kill, then informed others where they could locate it. Etewa did not eat of the monkey and the two peccaries he had shot.
One afternoon he returned with a curassow hung from his back. He scalped the bird, saving the strip of skin where the curly black feathers were attached. It would serve as an armband. The wing feathers he saved for feathering his arrows. He cooked the almost two-foot-long bird on a wooden platform he had built over the fire. Tasting to see if the curassow was done thoroughly, he then proceeded to divide it between his children and two wives.
"Is the white girl your child or your wife?" old Hayama shouted from her hut as Etewa handed me a piece of the dark breast meat.
"She is my mother," Etewa said, joining the laughing Iticoteri.
Days later, Arasuwe supervised the cooking of plantain pap. Etewa emptied a small gourd into the soup. Ritimi told me they were the last of the powdered bones of Etewa's father. Tears rolled down the men's and women's cheeks as they swallowed the thick soup. I took the calabash ladle Etewa offered me and cried for his dead father.
As soon as the trough was empty, Arasuwe shouted at the top of his voice, "What a waiter! man we have amongst us. He has killed his enemy. He has carried the dead man's hekuras in his chest without succumbing to hunger or loneliness during his confinment."
Etewa walked around the clearing. "Yes, I am waiteri," he sang. "The hekuras of a dead man can kill the strongest warrior. It is a heavy burden to carry them for so many days. A person can die of sorrow." Etewa began to dance. "I no longer think about the man I killed. I dance with the shadows of the night, not with the shadows of death." The longer he danced, the lighter and faster his steps became, as though through the movements he was finally able to shake off the burden he had borne in his chest.
Many an evening the events of the raid were retold by the men. Even old Kamosiwe had a version. All the stories had in common with the original one was that Etewa had killed a man, that three women had been captured. In time only a vague memory of the actual facts remained, and it became a tale of the distant past like all the other stories the Iticoteri were so fond of telling.