1636: Seas of Fortune (4 page)

A couple of dogs came down the trail and barked at Henrique and Maurício. They stopped, and let the dogs sniff them. Then they continued walking, and the dogs, still barking occasionally, followed.

The village was just a circle of conical huts. Various animals milled about the central clearing, but no people were there. Occasionally, a head would look out of a hut, then pull back in.

“Hey, that was a pretty girl, over there,” Maurício exclaimed. “Hope she comes out again.”

And, a moment later, “Ugh, look at that crone. Hope she’s not the mom, wouldn’t want her for a mother-in-law.”

Henrique didn’t respond; he was studying the village. “Maurício, we need to leave. Now.”

“What about trading for food? What about getting better acquainted with the young ladies?”

“Didn’t you notice? There are only women in this village.”

“Hey, you’re right. Wow,
we
found the village of the Amazon women warriors. The ones Father Cristobal de Acuna wrote about. And Sir Walter Raleigh. There are only two of us, so we will certainly enjoy favors of their queens. For a whole month. And—”

Henrique grabbed Maurício by both shoulders and forcibly rotated him about-face. “What it means, Maurício, is that their men are off on the warpath, and we really, really don’t want to be here when they come back.”

* * *

Henrique and Maurício made it safely back to their canoe, and pressed on. They felt safe enough, at this point, to erect a makeshift sail, so they could travel more quickly. It didn’t seem likely that they were still being pursued.

A few days later, they saw a large canoe overtaking them from the south. They hastily took down their mast, but it was a false alarm. The canoe was crewed by Manao Indians. The Manao were great traders, criss-crossing the central Amazon. The Portuguese had first encountered them on the Solimoes, the “River of Poisons”—so-called because the tribes there used poison arrows. Rumor had it that the Manao came from far to the north, way up the Rio Negro, but no Portuguese had visited their homeland.

Henrique raised his hands, palms open, signaling peaceful intent. The Manao greeted him, and, politely, asked his business in their region. He said that he was looking to trade and, perhaps find a path to the Great Water in the north. He gave them a few beads, and they offered him some
cachiri
to drink.

This particular trading party was returning from a run up the Madeira, one of the tributaries on the right bank of the Amazon. That night, Henrique, Maurício and the Manao camped together, on an island, and Henrique questioned them about what tribes lived along the Madeira, and what goods they had to offer.

Maurício had other concerns. He eagerly asked them whether they had seen any women warriors there, and they told him that it was a nonsensical idea. “No more
cachiri
for you,” one suggested kindly.

Maurício whispered to Henrique. “Perhaps these Manao haven’t traveled widely enough. Someone else at the village may have heard of the Amazons. After all, Acuna and Raleigh reported them.”

Henrique was unimpressed. “Perhaps Father Cristobal de Acuna and Sir Walter Raleigh were a pair of bald-faced liars.”

The Manao invited Henrique and Maurício to follow them to their village. This was located near where the Solimoes joined with the Rio Negro to form the mighty Amazon. The site had been abandoned, for some mystical reason, by the local Taruma Indians. The Manao had first used it as a trading camp and it had gradually evolved into a village. It was definitely a good location for traders.

And for refugees from Portuguese law, it was a place to gather news of pursuit.

Summer 1634

Henrique raised his eyebrows. “You sure you want to go through with this?”

Maurício continued painting himself for the ceremony. “Coqui told me that I have to, if I want to marry Kasiri. Or any other of the village girls, for that matter.”

Henrique knew who Kasiri was. Wherever she walked, she was followed by a crowd of admirers. Including, most recently, Maurício. Henrique did have to admit that Maurício seemed to have eclipsed the former favorite. The lure of the exotic perhaps.

As soon as Maurício discovered that Kasiri’s name meant “moon,” he had started composing poetry in her honor. Fortunately, it was all in Portuguese.

These ruminations only occupied a fraction of a second. “Uh, huh,” Henrique said. “Kasiri’s older brother really wants to help you get inside her loincloth. Right.”

“He’s always been polite to me.”

“Are you sure you understand what this ritual involves?”

“I just have to let them put a few ants on me. And not complain. No big deal, I’ve had ants crawl onto my hammock and bite me. Thanks to you. If ants are so bad, why did you try to get me to hang my hammock on that ‘greenhorn’ tree?”

Henrique decided not to answer with the truth, which was that after years in the wilderness, he had acquired the native taste for practical jokes. “Have it your way. At least you’re doing the ant ceremony, not the one which uses wasps. Remember, it’s all a waste if you cry out in pain, or flinch away.”

Maurício went off the join the other initiates; in other words, to dance and get drunk, not necessarily in that order. The village maidens brought them gourd after gourd of
cachiri
, which was made from fermented manioc root. And encouraged their dancing and drinking with flirtatious looks and gestures. At first Maurício was self-conscious about being in the company of youths little more than half his age. But the
cachiri
soon took care of that problem. Well before the three days of ceremonial boozing were completed.

* * *

On the third day, Henrique went off with the party that was to prepare the
marake
. The Indians had picked out, in advance, a likely ant colony, and their first task was to drive the ants out into the open. They blocked all save two tunnels, and blew tobacco smoke into one of them. That did the trick. The ants emerged and were carried, on top of leaves or sticks, to a
calabash
. They were dumped inside, and found themselves awash in an infusion of roucou leaves. This dulled them satisfactorily.

One of the shaman’s apprentices used a parrot feather to carefully position each of the two hundred or so somnolent red ants into the mesh at the center of the damp
marake
, their heads all facing the same direction. It dried, tightening the mesh about them, before they recovered. The apprentice gingerly carried the armed
marake
back to the chief’s hut, where it would remain until noon.

* * *

Maurício felt like he was flying through the air as he danced in the big circle.
I wonder what they put in the
cachiri? “I am a bird,” he shouted. “A
kokoi
, a hawk.” He looked at Kasiri. “Shall I swoop down on you?” he cried. She giggled. Her brother, Coqui, also seemed amused for some reason.

The initiates were called into a line, standing in front of a great trench with bark stretched across its entire length. They rhythmically beat upon the bark with sticks, summoning the Sun God.

At noon, with the sun at the zenith, the oldest woman in the village tottered forward. She picked up the
marake
, and pointed at Maurício.

“You first. Arms up, feet apart.” He complied, still in a hallucinatory daze.

She raised the
marake
, and put the business end against his cheeks for a few seconds. Then his arms. His dreamy expression started to show signs of uncertainty, but fortunately he didn’t show any pain. His chest. The outside of his thighs.

“Did they warn you that some initiates die in this ordeal?” she asked. He didn’t respond.

She paused. Then, very deliberately, she put the
marake
against the inside of his left thigh. She gave the back a tap, and then held it in place. Ten seconds. Maurício’s eyes widened. Twenty seconds. Each ant bite was a lance of fire, mortifying his flesh.

“Kasiri is supposed to marry my grandson, did you know that? Her grandmother and I had it all planned out, when they were both little. You, a stranger, of no great wealth or skill, are trying to spoil our plans.”

Maurício’s eyes were tearing now.

“I can’t help feeling a bit . . . resentful.”

Thirty seconds. His breath was unsteady.

“Of course, if you fail the test, there’s no problem.”

Forty seconds.

“And I take this
marake
away, and the pain will be over.”

Maurício didn’t notice it, but there was angry muttering in the background. And suddenly he heard Kasiri’s voice, strident with rage, but he couldn’t understand what she said.

The old woman pulled the
marake
away. “Passed,” she acknowledged regretfully. “Next.”

Maurício looked at Henrique. “See, that was nothing,” Maurício declared. Then he fainted.

* * *

It had taken a week for Maurício to recover from the vicious bites. His only consolation had been the solicitousness with which Kasiri had applied oil to the inflamed areas of his body. Still, he had had to be real careful how he walked until the salves finished their work.

Maurício and Kasiri, arm in arm, strolled down the sandy beach where her people went bathing. They passed a small stand of palm trees and, abruptly, Coqui stepped out in front of them.

They halted. Coqui, his lips compressed, arms akimbo, watched them silently. Maurício waited for Coqui to say something. Kasiri, for once, was also quiet.

Suddenly, Coqui started hopping about, bowlegged, his hands on the inside of his thighs, yelling “ahh, ahh, ahh.” After a minute of this, he exclaimed, “You very funny. You now my friend, Ant-Man.” He walked off, laughing.

* * *

“Wake up, Maurício.” Maurício didn’t stir. Henrique gave the hammock a push, and it started swinging wildly, to and fro, dumping Maurício to the ground.

“What the hell, Henrique!”

“Time to pack. A trading party came back from downriver. Said that they saw three big canoes tied to trees, and many men camped nearby. Best guess is that they’ll be here soon, perhaps tomorrow or the next day.”

“An
entrada
?” That was the term for an expedition whose principal purpose was purchasing or capturing slaves.

“They did ask whether the Manao had any captives to sell. But what they were most interested in, was whether any white man, alone or accompanied by a black man, had been seen recently.”

“Uh-oh. Did the Indians reveal our presence?”

“They couldn’t; this party had left the village way before we left Belém. But there’s more. They described the leader.”

“And?”

“He’s our old pal, Bento Maciel Parente.”

“I’ll start packing.”

* * *

Maurício broke the news to Kasiri. “So I have to flee at once. I love you, but I don’t want to put you in any danger. So I guess this is goodbye—”

She slapped him. “Don’t be stupid. I’m coming. And you’re letting me come, or I’ll kill you myself.” She squirmed out of his embrace and started ordering her family around, collecting the supplies that would do them the most good.

The plan was to go up the Rio Branco and the Takutu. The latter did a hairpin turn, and then ran parallel to a Guianan river, the Rupununi. The markings on the map suggested that the ground there was relatively flat. In fact, the Manao told him that there was a lake that appeared and disappeared there. It sound a bit improbable, but Henrique was willing to grant the possibility that the land between the two rivers flooded during the rainy season. In any event, Henrique hoped to ride the Rupununi down to the Essequibo, and ultimately to the Dutch settlements near the mouth of that waterway.

Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, Coqui announced that he would join them. “I don’t like any of the local girls. Perhaps I’ll have better luck upriver.”

* * *

The going had been slow. During the rainy season, the water level of the Amazon and its tributaries rose, eroding the banks, and toppling forest giants. When the waters began to recede, the trunks were left behind, hindering navigation.

From time to time, Coqui and Kasiri would leave them and scout their backtrail, to see if they were being pursued.

Henrique and Maurício, left alone once again, held the canoe steady against the current, studying the latest obstruction. They could get out of the canoe, thus lightening its load, and try to push the canoe over or under the log. They could try to shift the log out of their way. Or they could beach the canoe and portage around.

Like the Indians, they didn’t much like the idea of getting into the water. There were caimans, electric eels, stingrays and piranha to worry about. Not all in the same place, of course. And when the waters were high, piranhas usually were a problem only if you were bleeding, or acted as if you were in distress.

On the other hand, the vegetation on shore looked especially nasty, with plenty of long thorns. They would have to cut their way through, and that would be extremely slow and arduous. And a giveaway to anyone following them.

“I guess we’re going to get wet,” Henrique said. They probed the bottom with their paddles, then gingerly lowered themselves into the water. They each grabbed a side of the canoe and started moving forward, shuffling their feet to minimize the stingray hazard. They looked back and forth, studying every ripple to make sure it wasn’t the wake of an inquisitive caiman.

At last, they reached the obstruction. They tentatively rocked the offending log, their attention still divided between it and the river surface. The response was an angry drumming sound.

“Down!” Henrique took a quick breath, and submerged himself.

Maurício saw what appeared to be black smoke coming over the log, and heading straight toward them. Wasps. Hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Enough to kill them both, several times over.

“Shit!” he agreed, and followed suit.

Henrique had flipped the canoe, and they both swam underneath, putting their heads in the breathing space it provided. The canoe slowly floated back downstream, away from the angry insects.

After some minutes, Henrique poked his head out of the water. No wasps attacked, so he rose further. Maurício copied him.