Instead of the bamboo knife she always used, Ritimi trimmed my hair with a sharp grass blade. Frowning with concentration, she made sure the hair was cut evenly all around my head.
"Not my tonsure," I said, covering the top of my head with my folded hands. "It hurts."
"Don't be so cowardly," Ritimi laughed. "You don't want to arrive at the mission looking like a barbarian."
I could not make her understand that among whites I would be considered an oddity with a bald spot on the top of my head. Ritimi insisted that it was not merely for aesthetic reasons but practical ones as well that she needed to shave the crown of my head.
"Lice," she pointed out, "like that particular spot best. I'm certain Iramamowe will not delouse you in the evenings."
"Maybe you should shave my hair completely," I suggested. "That's the best way to get rid of them."
Horrified, Ritimi stared at me. "Only the very sick have their heads shaved. You would look ugly."
Nodding in agreement, I submitted to her ministrations. Upon finishing, she rubbed the bald spot with onoto. Then, she very carefully painted my face with the red paste. She drew a wide straight line just below my bangs and wavy ones across my cheeks with dots between each of the lines. "What a shame I did not pierce your nose and the corners of your mouth when you first arrived," she said disappointedly. Removing the polished slender stick from her septum, she held it under my nose. "How beautiful you would have looked," she sighed with comical resignation, and proceeded to paint my back with wide onoto lines rounding toward my buttocks. On the front, starting below my breasts, she drew wavy lines all the way to my thighs. Lastly she encircled my ankles with broad red bands. Looking down my legs, I had the feeling I was wearing socks.
Tutemi tied a newly made cotton belt around my waist, the front fringe resting on my pubis. Pleased at my appearance, she clapped her hands and jumped up and down excitedly. "Oh, the ears!" she cried, motioning Ritimi to hand her the white feather tufts held together on a thin string. Tutemi tied them on my earrings. Around my upper arms and below my knees she fastened red-dyed cotton strands.
Encircling my waist with her arm, Ritimi took me from hut to hut, so I could be admired by the Iticoteri. For one last time I saw myself reflected in the women's shiny eyes; and delighted in the men's mocking smiles. Yawning, old Kamosiwe stretched his skinny arms until they seemed about to be pulled from their sockets. He opened his one eye, studying my face as if he were trying to memorize my features. With slow, deliberate movements, he unfastened the small pouch he wore around his neck, and took out the pearl I had given him. "Whenever I let this stone roll on my palm, I will think of you."
Unwilling to believe that never again would I stand there in the shabono, that never again would I awake to the children's laughter as they climbed into my hammock at dawn, I wept.
There were no good-byes. I simply followed Iramamowe and Etewa into the forest. Ritimi and Tutemi were behind me, as if we were going to collect firewood. Silently we walked along the path the whole day, stopping only momentarily to snack.
The sun was setting behind the horizon of trees when we came to a halt beneath the dark shadows of three giant ceibas. They had grown so close together that they appeared to be one. Ritimi fastened the basket she had been carrying for me on my back. It was packed with plantains, roasted monkey meat, a honey-filled calabash, several empty gourds, my hammock, and my knapsack which contained my jeans and a torn shirt.
"You won't grow sad if you paint your body with onoto each time you bathe in the river," Ritimi said, tying a small gourd around my waist. It had been polished with abrasive leaves. Smooth and white, it hung from my cotton belt like a giant teardrop.
The forest, the three smiling faces, blurred before me. Without another word, Ritimi led the way into the thicket. Only Etewa turned around before melting into the shadows. A grin lit his face as he waved the way he had so often seen Milagros do when he bid me farewell.
I gave free rein to the vast desolation inside me. It did not make me feel any better, but only heightened my despondency. Yet, in spite of my wretchedness, I was strangely aware of the three ceibas in front of me. As if in a dream, I recognized the trees. I had been on this very spot before. Milagros had squatted in front of me. Impassively, he had watched the rain wash my face and body of Angelica's ashes. Today it was Iramamowe squatting on the same spot, gazing at the tears rolling uncontrollably down my cheeks.
"It was here that I first saw Ritimi, Tutemi, and Etewa," I said. Suddenly I realized it had been Ritimi's deliberate choice to accompany me this far. I understood all she had left unsaid, how deeply she felt. She had given me back a basket and a gourd, the two items I was carrying that distant day. Only now the gourd was not filled with ashes, but with onoto, a symbol of life and happiness. A quiet loneliness, humble and accepting, filled my heart. I carefully dried my tears so as not to erase the onoto designs.
"Perhaps one day Ritimi will find you on this spot again," Iramamowe said, his habitually stern face softened by a fleeting smile. "Let's walk a bit farther before we rest for the night." Lifting the heavy bunch of plantains from my basket, he Hung it over his shoulder. He was slightly swaybacked and his belly stuck out.
Iramamowe must have felt the same urge to walk as I did. My feet seemed to move of their own accord, knowing exactly where to step in the darkness. I never lost sight of Iramamowe's arrow quiver, immobilized under the load of plantains. Moving through the darkness, I had the illusion that it was not I but the forest that was leaving.
"We'll sleep here," Iramamowe said, inspecting the weathered lean-to that stood away from the path. He built a small fire inside, then hung his hammock next to mine.
I lay awake watching the stars and the faint moon through the opening of the hut. Mist thickened the darkness until there was no light left. Trees and sky formed one mass through which I imagined bows falling from the clouds like heavy rain; and hekuras rising from invisible crevices in the earth: They danced to the sound of a shaman's song.
The sun was high over the treetops when Iramamowe woke me. After finishing a baked plantain and a piece of monkey meat, I offered him my calabash with honey.
"You'll need it for the days of walking," he said. A friendly glance softened his words of refusal. "We will find more on the way," he promised, reaching for his machete and his bow and arrows.
We walked at a steady pace, much faster than I remember ever having walked in my life. We crossed rivers, we moved up and down hills that bore no familiar landmark. Days spent walking, nights spent sleeping chased each other with predictable swiftness. My thoughts did not reach beyond each day or night. There was nothing between them but a short-lived dawn and dusk during which we ate.
"I know this place!" I exclaimed one afternoon, breaking the long silence. I pointed to the dark rocks jutting from the earth. They formed a perpendicular wall along the river's edge. But the longer I gazed at the river and trees, already purple in the twilight, the less sure I felt I had been there before. I climbed over a tree trunk that extended all the way into the water. The day had been deadly still, but now the leaves began to stir gently, sending forth a fresh whisper along the river. Arching branches and creepers brushed the water's surface, burying themselves in the dark liquid that harbored no fish and discouraged mosquitoes. "Are we close to the mission?" I asked, turning to Iramamowe.
He did not answer. After a moment, as if annoyed by the silence he was unwilling to break, he motioned me to follow.
I felt tired- each step was an effort- yet I could not remember having gone very far that day. I lifted my head as I heard the cry of a bird. A yellow leaf, like a giant butterfly, fluttered from a branch. As if afraid to fall and rot on the ground, the leaf clung to my thigh. Iramamowe held out his hand behind him, gesturing me to remain still. Stealthily he stalked along the riverbank. "We will eat meat tonight," he whispered, then disappeared in the uncertain light, his body but a line against the shimmering river's surface.
Lying down on the dark sand, I watched the sky ablaze for a moment as the earth swallowed the sun. I drank the last of the honey Iramamowe had found that morning, then fell asleep with its sweetness on my lips. Awakened by the sound of crackling flames, I turned on my stomach. On a small platform built over the fire Iramamowe was roasting an almost two-foot-long agouti.
"It's not good to sleep at night without the protection of a fire," he said, facing me. "The spirits of the forest might bewitch you."
"I am so tired," I yawned, moving closer to the fire. "I could sleep for days."
"It will rain during the night," Iramamowe announced as he planted the three poles that would make our shelter around the roasting meat. I helped him cover the roof and sides with the wild banana fronds he had cut while I slept. He fastened the hammocks close to the fire, so we could push the logs to the flames without having to get up.
The agouti tasted like roast pork, tender and juicy. What we did not finish Iramamowe tied to a stick high above the fire. "We'll eat the rest in the morning." Grinning, as if pleased with himself, he stretched fully in his hammock. "It will give us strength to climb the mountains."
"Mountains?" I asked. "I only went over hills when I came with Angelica and Milagros." I bent over Iramamowe. "The only time I climbed up a mountain was when I returned to the shabono with Ritimi and Etewa from the Mocototeri feast. Those mountains were close to the shabono." I touched his face. "Are you sure you know the way to the mission?"
"What a question to ask," he said, closing his eyes, and crossing his arms over his chest. His bristly eyebrows slanted toward his temples. There were a few hairs at the edge of his upper lip. The skin over his high cheekbones was stretched taut, only a faint trace of the onoto designs still recognizable. As if annoyed by my scrutiny, he opened his eyes: They reflected the light of the fire, but his gaze revealed nothing.
I lay down in my hammock. I ran my fingers along my forehead and cheeks, wondering if the onoto lines and dots had also faded on my face. Tomorrow I'll bathe in the river, I thought. And my uneasiness, which is probably nothing but exhaustion, will vanish as soon as I paint myself anew with onoto. Yet, no matter how I tried to reassure myself, I was unable to still my mounting distrust. My body and mind were tight with a vague premonition I could not put into words. The air became chilly. Leaning over, I pushed one of the logs closer to the flames.
"It will be even colder in the mountains," Iramamowe mumbled. "I will make us a drink from plants that will keep us warm."
Reassured by his words, I began to inhale and exhale with exaggerated depth, deliberately pushing all thoughts away, until I was aware of nothing but the sound of the rain, the smoke-warmed air, the smell of damp earth. And I slept a calm, untroubled sleep that lasted throughout the night.
In the morning we bathed in the river, then painted each other's faces and bodies with onoto. Iramamowe was specific about the designs he desired: A serpentine line across his forehead, extending down to his jaws, then around his mouth; a circle between his brow, at the corners of his eyes, and two on each cheek. On his chest he wanted wavy lines, running all the way to his navel, and on his back the lines had to be straight. A smile of gentle mockery softened his face as he covered me from head to foot with uniform circles.
"What do they mean?" I asked eagerly. Ritimi had never decorated me thus.
"Nothing," he said, laughing. "This way you don't look so skinny."
At first the ascent up the narrow trail was easy. The undergrowth was free of serrated grasses and thorny weeds. A warm mist enshrouded the forest, creating a diaphanous light through which the crowns of the tall palm trees seemed to hang suspended from the sky. The sound of waterfalls echoed eerily through the misty air, and each time I brushed against a branch or leaf tiny drops of moisture clung to me. The afternoon rain, however, turned the path into a muddy menace. I bruised my toes repeatedly on the roots and stones beneath the slippery surface.
We made camp late in the afternoon, halfway up the summit. Exhausted, I sat on the ground and watched Iramamowe pound three strong poles into the earth. I did not have the strength to help him cover the triangular structure with palm fronds and giant leaves.
"Are you coming back this way on your return to the shabonof" I asked, wondering why he was reinforcing the hut so well. It appeared altogether too sturdy for a one-night shelter.
Iramamowe gave me a sidelong glance but did not answer.
"Is there going to be a storm tonight?" I asked in an exasperated tone.
An irrepressible smile played around his lips, and his face looked uncannily childish as he squatted beside me. A mischievous sparkle, as if he were planning some prank, shone in his eyes. "Tonight you will sleep well," he finally said, then proceeded to build a fire inside the cozy hut. He fastened my hammock in the back: His own he hung close to the narrow entrance. "Tonight we will not feel the cold air," he said, looking for the gourd in which were soaking the shredded leaves and pale yellow flowers of a plant he had found the previous day, growing over some rocks in a sunny spot along the river's edge. He unsealed the calabash, added more water, then placed it over the fire. Softly he began to chant, his eyes fixed on the dark simmering liquid.
Trying to figure out the words of his song, I fell asleep. I was awakened shortly by him. "Drink this," he urged, holding the gourd close to my lips. "It has been cooled by the mountain dew."
I took a sip. It tasted like herb tea, bitter but not unpleasantly so. After a few more gulps, I pushed the calabash toward him.
"Drink it all," Iramamowe said coaxingly. "It will keep you warm. You will sleep for days."
"Days?" I emptied the gourd, smiling at his remark as if it were a joke. A faint touch of malice seemed to be lurking somewhere within him. By the time it fully dawned on me that he was not being facetious, a pleasant numbness seeped through my body, melting my anxiety into a comforting heaviness that made my head feel as if it were lead. I was sure it would break off my neck. The image of my head rolling on the ground, a ball with two glass eyes, threw me into spasms of laughter.
Crouching by the fire, Iramamowe watched me with growing curiosity. Slowly, I stood up. I've lost my physicality, I thought. I had no control over my legs as I tried to place one foot in front of the other. Dejected, I slumped on the ground, next to Iramamowe. "Why don't you laugh?" I asked, surprised at my own words. What I really wanted to know was if the sound of drops prattling on the thatched roof was a storm. I wondered if I had actually spoken, for the words kept reverberating in my head like a distant echo. Afraid to miss his answer, I moved closer to him.
Iramamowe's face became taut as the cry of a nocturnal monkey broke the night's stillness. His nostrils flared, his full lips set in a straight line. His eyes, piercing into mine, grew larger, shining with a deep loneliness, a gentleness that contrasted oddly with his severe masklike face.
As if I were animated by a slow-motion mechanism, I crawled to the edge of the hut, each of my movements a gigantic effort. I felt as if all my tendons had been replaced with elastic strings. I relished the sensation of being able to stretch in any direction, into the most absurd postures I could imagine.
From the pouch hanging around his neck, Iramamowe poured epena into his palm. He drew the hallucinogenic powder deep into his nostrils, then began chanting. I felt his song inside me, surrounding me, drawing me toward him. Without any hesitation I drank from the gourd he once again held to my lips. The dark liquid no longer tasted bitter.
My sense of time and distance became distorted. Iramamowe and the fire were so far away, I feared I had lost them across the wide expanse of the hut. Yet the next instant, his eyes were so close to mine I saw myself reflected in their dark pupils. I was crushed by the weight of his body, and my arms folded beneath his chest. He whispered words into my ears that I could not hear. A breeze parted the leaves, revealing the shadowy night, the treetops brushing the stars- countless stars, massed together as if in readiness to fall. I reached out: My hand grasped leaves adorned with diamond drops. For an instant, they clung to my fingers, then disintegrated like dew.
Iramamowe's heavy body held me: His eyes sowed seeds of light inside me: His gentle voice urged me to follow him through dreams of day and night, dreams of rainwater and bitter leaves. There was nothing violent about his body imprisoning mine. Waves of pleasure mingled with visions of mountains and rivers, faraway places where hekuras dwell. I danced with the spirits of animals and trees, gliding with them through mist, through roots and trunks, through branches and leaves. I sang with the voices of birds and spiders, jaguars and snakes. I shared the dreams of all those who feed on epena, on bitter flowers and leaves.
I no longer knew if I was awake or dreaming. At moments I vaguely remembered old Hayama's words about shamans needing the femaleness in their bodies. But those memories were neither clear nor lasting: They remained dim, unexamined premonitions. Iramamowe always knew whenever I was about to fall into real sleep, whenever my tongue was ready to ask, whenever I was about to weep.
"If you can't dream, I'll make you," he said, taking me in his arms, and rubbing away my tears against his cheek. And my desire to refuse the gourd sitting by the fire like a forest spirit vanished. Greedily I drank the dark bearer of visions until once again I was suspended in a timelessness that was neither day or night. I was one with the rhythm of Iramamowe's breath, with the beat of his heart, as I merged with the light and the darkness inside him.
A time came when I felt I was moving through an undergrowth of trees, leaves, and motionless vines. I knew I was not walking; yet I was descending from the cold forest, sunk in mist. My feet were tied and my upside-down head shook as though it were being emptied. Visions flowed from my ears, nostrils, and mouth, leaving a faint line on the steep path. And for one last instant I glimpsed shabonos inhabited by men and women shamans of another time.
When I awoke, Iramamowe was crouched by the fire, his face alight with the flames and a faint streak of moon shining into the hut. I wondered how many days had elapsed since the night he had first offered me the bitter-tasting brew. There was no gourd by the fire. I was certain we were no longer in the mountains. The night was clear. The soft breeze stirring the treetops disentangled my thoughts and I drifted into a dreamless sleep as I listened to the monotonous sound of Iramamowe's hekura songs.
The persistent growling of my stomach awoke me. I felt dizzy as I stood on uncertain legs in the empty hut. My body was painted with wavy lines. How strange it had all been, I thought. I felt no regret: I was not filled with hate or repulsion. It was not that I was numbed emotionally. Rather I felt the same indescribable sensation I experienced upon awakening from a dream that I could not quite explain.
Near the fire lay a bundle containing roasted frogs. I sat on the ground and gnawed on the tiny bones until they were clean. Iramamowe's machete reclining against one of the poles reassured me that he was somewhere close by.
Following the sound of the river, I walked through the tangled growth. Startled to see Iramamowe beaching a small canoe only a short distance away, I hid behind some bushes. I recognized the craft as being one made by the Maquiritare Indians. I had seen that kind, made from a hollowed tree trunk, at the mission. The thought that we might be close to one of their settlements, or perhaps even to the mission, made my heart beat faster. Iramamowe gave no indication of having heard or seen me approach. Furtively, I returned to the shelter, wondering how he came into possession of the canoe.
Moments later, with a vine rope and a large bundle slung over his back, Iramamowe walked into the hut. "Fish," he said, dropping the rope and bundle on the ground.
I blushed, and embarrassed at my blushing, laughed.
Unhurriedly, he balanced the wrapped fish between the logs, making sure enough heat but no direct flames reached the platanillo leaves. Totally engrossed in the sound of the simmering fish, he remained squatting by the fire. As soon as all the juices were cooked away, he removed the bundle from the logs with a forked stick and opened it. "It's good," he said, scooping a handful of white, flaky meat into his mouth, then pushed the bundle toward me.
"What happened in the mountains?" I asked,
Startled by my belligerent tone, his mouth gaped open. A piece of unchewed fish fell into the ashes. Automatically, without checking the dirt sticking to it, he put the morsel back into his mouth, then reached for the liana rope on the ground.
An irrational fear seized me. I was convinced that Iramamowe was going to tie me up and carry me farther into the forest. I was no longer aware that only a short while before I had been certain we were near a Maquiritare settlement, or even the mission. All I could think of was old Hayama's story about shamans who kept captive women hidden in faraway places. I was convinced Iramamowe would never take me back to the mission. The thought that had he wanted to keep me hidden in the forest he would not have brought me down from the mountains did not cross my mind at that moment.
I did not trust his smile, nor the gentle glint in his eyes. I picked up the water-filled gourd standing by the fire and offered it to him. Smiling, he dropped the rope. I moved closer as if I intended to bring the calabash to his lips. Instead, I smashed it between his eyes with all my strength. Caught totally unawares, he fell backward, staring at me in dumb incredulity as the blood ran down on both sides of his nose.
Heedless of thorns, roots, and the sharp grass, I sped through the thicket toward the place where I had seen the canoe. But I miscalculated where Iramamowe had anchored it, for when I reached the river there was nothing but stones strewn along the bank: The craft was farther upriver. With a swiftness I hardly believed myself capable of, I leaped from rock to rock. Gasping for breath, I slumped beside the canoe, pushed halfway up the sandy bank. A cry escaped my throat when I saw Iramamowe standing in front of me.
Squatting, he opened his mouth and laughed. His laughter came in bursts, extending from his face to his feet with such force the ground shook beneath me. Tears ran down his cheeks, mingling with the blood from the gash between his brows. "You forgot this," he said, dangling my knapsack in front of me. He opened it, then handed me my jeans and shirt. "Today you will reach the mission."
"Is this the river on which the mission stands?" I asked, staring at his bloodstained face. "I don't recognize this place."
"You have been here with Angelica and Milagros," he assured me. "The rains change the rivers and the forest the way the clouds change the sky."
I pulled up my jeans; loosely they hung from my waist, threatening to slide over my hips. The damp moldy-smelling shirt made me sneeze. I felt awkward and turned uncertain eyes to Iramamowe. "How do I look?"
He walked around me, examining me meticulously from every angle. Then, after a moment's deliberation, he squatted once more and pronounced with a laugh, "You look better painted with onoto."
I squatted beside him. The wind was still: There was no movement on the river. Shadows from the tall trees reached across the water, darkening the sand at our feet. I wanted to apologize for smashing the gourd in his face, and to explain my suspicions. I wanted him to tell me of the days in the mountains, but was reluctant to break the silence.
As if cognizant and amused by my dilemma, Iramamowe lowered his face to his knees and laughed softly, as if sharing his mirth with the drops of blood falling between his wide spread toes. "I wanted to take the hekuras I once saw in your eyes," he murmured. He went on to say that not only he but also Puriwariwe, the old shapori, had seen the hekuras within me. "Every time I lay with you and felt the energy bursting inside you, I hoped to lure the spirits into my chest," Iramamowe said. "But they didn't want to leave you." He turned his eyes to me, intense with protest. "The hekuras would not answer my call; they would not heed my songs. And then I became afraid that you might take the hekuras from my body."
Anger and an indescribable sadness rendered me speechless for a moment. "Did we stay longer than a day and a night in the mountains?" I finally asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Iramamowe nodded, but did not say for how long we had remained in the hut. "When I was certain that I could not change your body; when I realized that the hekuras would not leave you, I carried you in a sling to this place."
"Had you changed my body would you have kept me in the forest?"
Iramamowe looked at me sheepishly. A smile of relief parted his lips, yet his eyes were veiled with a vague regret. "You have the soul and shadow of an Iticoteri," he murmured. "You have eaten the ashes of our dead. But your body and head is that of a nape." A silence punctuated his last sentence before he softly added, "There will be nights when the wind will bring your voice mingled with the cries of monkeys and jaguars. And I will see your shadow dancing on the ground, painted by the moonlight. On those nights I will think of you." He stood up and pushed the canoe into the water. "Stay close to the bank- otherwise the current will take you too swiftly," he said, motioning me to climb inside.
"Aren't you coming?" I asked, alarmed.
"It's a good canoe," he said, handing me a small paddle. It had a beautifully shaped handle, a rounded shaft, and the oval blade was shaped like a pointed concave shield. "It will take you safely to the mission."
"Wait!" I cried before he let go of the craft. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the zippered side pocket of my knapsack. I took out the leather pouch, and handed it to him. "Do you remember the stone the shaman Juan Caridad gave me?" I asked. "It's yours now."
Something between shock and surprise seemed to momentarily paralyze his face. Slowly his fingers closed over the pouch, and his features relaxed into a smile. Without a word, he pushed the canoe into the water. Folding his arms across his chest, he watched me drift downriver. I turned my head often, until he was out of sight. There was a moment when I thought I still saw his figure, but it was only the wind playing with the shadows that tricked my eyes.