And then, suddenly, the whole jungle fell silent. The birds fell silent, the fish and the snakes fell silent, all the other animals fell silent, and, alone in that silence, only the lament of the ayaymaman could be heard, calling out like a lost child again and again. Night had fallen on the Amazon.
Laura Sheldon (maiden name, Laura Sligo) turned her head in the apparent direction of that solitary song, and then, huddled in her chair, she burst into tears. And for a long time there were only two songs in all that vastness: Laura’s sobs and the cry of the ayaymaman.
It had grown completely dark when César Calvo, the good man of Iquitos, went over to her and spoke to her like a brother.
“We will find him. But now you must sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, seven hours to the Unine and then about the same again to the land of the Ashaninka. You must sleep. I’m going to see if the canoes are ready and to reach an agreement with the Indians. I hope they’re in the mood for rowing,” he added before going off toward another of the shacks in La Atalaya.
Then it was my turn to go over to Laura, not like a brother, but like a man who could not recall ever having met a woman quite like her: so intelligent, so brave, so very nice.
“Cheer up, Laura. Tomorrow we’ll find your husband, you’ll see. And when you throw your arms around his neck I want to see you laugh out loud because I’ve never seen you laugh. And it’s about time I did, I think.”
She forced a smile, put a hand on my arm, and told me not to worry, she was feeling better already.
Shortly afterward César returned, saying that everything was in order and that each of us would go in our own canoe with two rowers, at least as far as the Unine.
“Only as far as the Unine?” I asked.
“That’s right. Once we reach the Unine we’ll have to shift for ourselves. The Indians from La Atalaya will have nothing to do with the Ashaninka.”
We remained a little longer beneath the starless night sky, looking over in the direction of the green Tierra Alta we hoped to traverse. Then we went into the hut and lay down to sleep, wrapping ourselves up in great sheets of canvas, a protection against the tiny piri bats, the most efficient bloodsuckers in the jungle.
However, it wasn’t the piri that kept me from sleep a good part of the night, it was concern about the Amazonian rains that would soon be upon us. César Calvo, the wise man of Iquitos, never spoke of them but I knew he was worried too. If we didn’t hurry, the rains would cut off our path back, forcing us to remain among the Ashaninka, isolated from civilization, until the waters of the river became navigable once more.
The Ashaninka were good people, of course, excellent people, but, nonetheless, nothing had been quite the same in the jungle since the advent of the rubber tappers and their Winchester rifles. It was best not to take risks and to make the return journey as quickly as possible.
The following morning, once we had each taken our place in the three canoes César Calvo had hired, we began our journey up the Ucayali, the canoes forming a line with Laura and her two rowers in the middle. Seven hours later, having met with no mishaps, we could see the waters of the Unine, almost yellow in color, mingling with those of the Ucayali, and we knew the moment of truth had arrived. We would soon be among the Ashaninka. Laura would at last know her husband’s fate.
Almost immediately, the Indians raised their oars and pointed to the red trees rising before us on one of the small islands in the river. As César explained later, they were palosangres, a species typically found at the mouth of the Unine.
With extreme caution, the Indians replaced their oars in the water and rowed us to the shore. As far as they were concerned, the journey was at an end.
“Are you sure you won’t go on?” César asked them once he had handed them the money promised them in La Atalaya. “I’ll pay you double if you’ll take us up the Unine,” he added.
But it was useless, they were much too frightened. After a curt farewell, they climbed into two of the canoes and rowed off toward their village. All about us screamed hundreds of monkeys, the half-crazy makisapa of the Upper Amazon.
Then César Calvo, the wise man of Iquitos, looked up at the sky and said:
“There’s still plenty of daylight; our best bet would be to continue our journey on foot along the banks of the Unine, that way we’ll avoid the whirlpools at the mouth of the river.”
“Fine,” I said, and, taking out my machete, I plunged in among the palosangres and began to clear a path ahead. He and Laura followed me, carrying the one canoe the Indians had left us.
We walked for about four hours, never leaving the shores of the Unine and guided by the sound of its rushing waters. Then we looked for a beach and settled down to spend the night, our first night in Ashaninka territory.
“Who’ll take the first watch?” asked Laura Sheldon (maiden name, Laura Sligo) once the tent had been put up and fires lit around it.
“I’ll take two watches, yours and mine,” I answered.
She shook her head and frowned, as she always did when she was about to get angry.
“And no arguments,” I said to her, sitting down on a tree stump on the beach and making it clear that my watch had already begun.
“He’s a strong young man. He’ll survive,” smiled César Calvo, the good man of Iquitos, and any dispute was thus resolved. Shortly afterward, the two of them were sound asleep in the tent.
The only sound in the whole jungle was the murmur of the Unine flowing close by and the crackling flames of the fires protecting the tent. Where were the birds and snakes whose songs had accompanied us all day? Where were the boisterous makisapa? Perhaps they were hidden among the branches of the palosangres that fringed the beach, watching us, waiting for a moment’s inattention on our part to leave their lairs and attack us. But I was in no mood to give them that chance. I kept my eyes fixed on the jungle, alert to the slightest whisper, the slightest crack of broken twigs, and only looked away when, getting up from my seat to stretch my legs, I glanced across at the tent and comforted myself with the thought of Laura. I was the guardian of her sleep and that made me happy.
I was still thinking about her when I was startled by the triumphant call of a makisapa. “It must be dawn already,” I thought to calm myself. And just then a naka viper entered the circle of burning logs that protected me and buried his two small fangs in the ankle of my right leg.
“What’s wrong?” exclaimed César Calvo rushing out of the tent. My howls of pain had woken him.
I showed him the snake lying about a yard away from me. I had sliced it in two with my machete.
“A naka!” cried César, opening his eyes wide. Then he picked up the machete and made a long cut in the place where I had been bitten.
“What’s wrong?” asked Laura, who had followed him out of the tent. But her question remained hanging in the air, unanswered, for César was bending over me, sucking the blood from the wound.
“Oh, my God!” said Laura when she realized what had happened. And she said it with such sadness that, for an instant, I forgot the pain. It was proof that she was fond of me too.
After half an hour César said: “I think I’ve got nearly all the poison out.” It was daylight by then and the songs of the inhabitants of the jungle again enveloped us. By the side of the tent a great dark stain sullied the dry earth of the shore. The blood from my wound.