Chapter 1

Zach

Two weeks ago…

I follow Moira out of the airport and step out into the heat of Chicago. She told me it’s summertime here in the United States, a concept that doesn’t mean much to me other than it’s hot and it smells funny, almost like a metallic scent, which is harsh to my nose. I no longer smell the earthy, green scent of the Amazon, and a painful longing for my home courses through me.

Moira leads us over to a yellow car that I know is a taxi. I know it’s a car because I remember them from my childhood. I know it’s a taxi because my English-reading skills are still intact, and the word is printed on the side. My native tongue did not languish during my years living with the Caraicans, thanks to Father Gaul’s visits over the years, as he spoke English as well as Portuguese. He not only conversed with me in English at great length, but also brought me books to learn from. I had a basic understanding of math concepts and was fairly proficient on history and geography, having devoured everything that I could get my hands on to read.

It’s funny… how I recognize things. Living in the Amazon for the past eighteen years, my memories of my prior life were like faded dreams, almost like I could reach out and touch them, but they were just beyond my grasp. I wondered how much learning I would have to do, and how much of the “modern marvels” that Father Gaul used to talk to me about would surprise me.

What I found was that as I experienced the modern world, I found a distinct familiarity in what I was seeing. For example, I had no memory of traveling by plane to Brazil with my parents when I was a child. But the minute I saw the little Cessna that took us from the Amazon River into the capital of Brasilia, I knew I had been on one of those planes before. I didn’t remember it… I just knew it. The engine didn’t make me uneasy when it started, and I didn’t have an inherent distrust of the concept of flying. While I didn’t have specific memories of flying, as my fingers touched the glass windows of the plane, I suddenly remembered what “glass” was. The clear, hard material was not only familiar to me, but I remembered my parents’ house in Georgia when I was little. I remember running headfirst into a clear, sliding glass door and knocking myself flat on my butt.

When we landed at the airport, and Moira led me to a rental car, some clearer memories did assault me. I remembered being in my parents’ car, sitting in the backseat and maybe even holding a book that had bright pictures in it. I even think I remembered my parents’ voices as they talked with one another.

More things seemed just inherently familiar. At the hotel where we stayed for a few days, I was able to easily identify a variety of objects. The bed… and pillows. Yes, I knew what a pillow was. Moira brought me into the bathroom and explained how the toilet and the shower worked. It was coming back to me in little bits and pieces.

Some of these wonders I took advantage of. The shower was amazing; the water felt cleaner and lighter than the river waters or standing puddles of muddy rain that I would normally wash myself in. The smell of the shampoo made me think fondly of the scent of water lilies. Brushing my teeth for the first time in so many years was beyond incredible, and I couldn’t stop running my tongue over my teeth, amazed at how smooth they felt. No amount of scraping them with reed had ever made them this clean.

Yes, all of these things that were oddly familiar ended up being a comfort to me to some extent. I didn’t have any real moments where I felt overwhelmed by what I was experiencing… unless you count Moira driving a little too fast through Brasilia. We stayed there for two days, as I had to see a doctor for a health screening and to receive vaccinations, and we had to get my new passport at the American Embassy. While I had hoped that my passport would be denied, and thus ending this ludicrous situation, it was pushed through when I was able to show the consulate proof of my identity. That consisted of mine and my parents’ original travel documents that I kept all these years after they died, along with their wedding rings, one family photo, and our family Bible. The secretary to the American Ambassador personally handled my documents and gave me a warm, congratulatory smile when she handed me my passport. I wanted to slit her throat over her happiness that I was returning “home.” I wasn’t happy about it, but everyone else thought it was a wonderful thing.

There were some things I had a hard time adjusting to. While I briefly cherished the softness of the hotel bed, I found it a foreign feeling and thus uncomfortable. I ended up sleeping on the floor each night. The clothing that Moira had me put on before we boarded the Cessna was constraining and scratched against my skin. I hated it. The minute I was alone in my room, I stripped it all away and remained naked as I was used to.

I refused to eat with utensils, even though I immediately remembered what they were. I didn’t do that out of any sense of unease, but rather did so to show Moira that I would do as I pleased. If I thought I could get away with shedding my clothes the entire time, I’d do so, but Moira put a stop to that by telling me there were laws against it.

So I had to make do with the little things, like refusing to use a fork and knife, instead using my fingers to bring food to my mouth. I even shunned the napkin I watched her use to dab at her mouth and wipe her fingers, instead licking my fingers clean and once, even rubbing my lips across the material of the shirt I wore just at my shoulder. I refused to cut my hair when she suggested it, but she merely gave me a small smile and didn’t say a word.

It makes me angry… that she is just so accepting of my differences. I fully expect her at some point to start “insisting” that I behave according to these new cultural norms. Instead, she merely takes her time explaining things to me, and only gives me the opportunity to try something out. If I refuse, she only says, “Maybe some other time.”

My feelings toward this flame-haired woman cause dark feelings to twist within me. I know she is not directly responsible for me leaving my home, yet I loathe her as if she were the person who came up with this insane idea. I know she is just doing her job… doing what my “godfather” asked her to do, but my contempt for her is as great as for this man named Randall Cannon. Two people that have put into effect a series of events, which led me from a peaceful and happy existence.

They are simply my enemies.

Yes, Moira is my enemy, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t been looking at her the way a man looks at a woman. I have an unnatural attraction to the woman with red hair and green eyes. It was immediate the first time I laid eyes on her, sitting by the fire her first night in our village. So very different from the women of Caraica… who are tiny with brown skin and jet-black hair. When I walked into the village center, Moira had looked at me directly, no shy eyes hiding the way Tukaba would do unless I gave her tacit permission to gaze at me. Her hair is a glorious mass of flame-soaked waves and her eyes the color of jungle green. She reminds me of a wild and brilliantly colored bird of the Amazon, but she moves with the grace of a jaguar. So very different from what I am used to but immensely appealing, which I find causes me shame.

Because I don’t want to feel anything for this woman… my enemy… other than the anger I’m carrying for the way she has turned my life upside down. When we left the village, I was heartsick. Everyone had turned out to wish me safe travel, and I could barely look at Paraila for fear I would unman myself with tears. We started our hike to the Jutai River around mid-morning, and I did my best to ignore Moira, but that lasted only for so long.

We were getting closer to the Jutai as I could smell the tang of river water on the air. The red-haired woman, Moira, walked in front of me, with Father Gaul just in front of her, and Ramon leading us all. She stumbled every few feet over an errant vine or decomposing tree branch. She seemed enthralled with the rainforest, looking all around at the wildlife rather than where she should be walking.

She was an interesting woman, I admitted. Father Gaul explained to me that she was a teacher of some sort, her knowledge highly prized among her peers. Her expertise was in something he called “anthropology,” and she had made it her life to study the cultures of indigenous tribes in the Amazon. Father Gaul told me that I had a godfather who sent for me, and he hired this woman to be my teacher so that I could learn how to be a proper American when I return.

I snorted internally at the thought, vowing that I would never change a thing about myself… no matter how much they wished otherwise.

I’d never seen hair the color this woman possessed. It was as red as the setting sun and long as well; she wore it in a massive braid down her back. She was so different from the women of our tribe. So much taller than them—the top of her head coming up to my shoulder while theirs barely came to mid-chest. Her skin was pale, like the color of the moon, and she had tiny, little brown dots sparsely spread across her nose and cheeks.

I’d heard her speaking English with Father Gaul. I was sure she knew I spoke it as well, but she had stayed pretty far away from me since that first night when she arrived in our village.

When I was inside of Tukaba, taking my pleasure inside of her willing and warm flesh, my entire focus was on the beautiful, red-haired woman who watched me with fevered eyes. I imagined it was her body beneath mine, except I knew she wouldn’t lay there quietly the way a Caraican woman would do. No, I imagined someone like her would be writhing, moaning, and scratching at the dirt with her delicate fingers. I would have had to use my strength to pin one such as her down, but I would enjoy her complete surrender.

That thought alone had my shaft thickening, so I immediately tried to think of something else to quell its rise to glory.

Moira stumbled again, and I wanted to yell at her to watch where she was going. Her face was tilted upward to a pair of howler monkeys right above us, a small smile on her face as she watched them swing in the branches. I only glanced up briefly, and then turned my attention back to the jungle floor.

My gaze was keen—well trained—and in just a mere moment, I saw danger three feet from Moira’s stride as she stumbled along. A bushmaster snake was slithering its way onto the path from her right and, in two more steps, she would be right on it.

My hands shot out, grabbing Moira by the shoulders and pulling her backward into me. She screamed in fright as the bushmaster lifted its head toward us. I forcefully shoved her behind me, and she went crashing to the path on her butt. Father Gaul and Ramon looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, but they didn’t see what I did.

Certain death.

The bushmaster was defensively poised, its head hovering several inches off the ground. Without a word to any of them, I swung my machete through the air and alleviated the viper of its head, where it thudded softly onto the rotting leaves.

Reaching out to a large, wet palm leaf, I wiped the serpent’s blood from my blade and turned to Moira with a glare. “You need to keep your eyes on the path, foolish chama de cabelos. Next time, I let the serpent strike.”

She looked up at me with those mossy, green eyes filled with fear and contrition. Our gazes locked for a moment, but then I turned away and started walking down the path. Ramon rushed past me to help Moira from the ground, and our little expedition continued.

I reacted on instinct, saving her miserable life, and in turn, trapped myself at her side. In hindsight, I should have let the snake strike, then I could have hauled her lifeless body back to the village and been done with this foolishness.

We parted ways with Father Gaul and Ramon when we reached the Jutai. Moira and I continued north via dugout canoe, while Father Gaul went west to visit the Matica tribe, who was a sworn enemy of the Caraicans. There had been much bloodshed between our two clans.

On the second night after we had ported off the Jutai, I almost left Moira… so great was my longing to return home, back to the Caraican village where my friends and family revered me and I was happy. I went off into the jungle and contemplated what I would say to Paraila when I returned. I could tell him some lie, like Moira had changed her mind. Or that she had been eaten by a jaguar or caiman. With that story, I’d have to kill her and dispose of her body to get away with that, because knowing what little I did about her, she would have just tracked me back to the village.

Nothing I could come up with seemed to be feasible, but ultimately, I knew I would never be able to look Paraila… my father and teacher… in the eye and tell him I wouldn’t respect his wishes.

Paraila begged me to go, to give this opportunity a chance, and I ultimately couldn’t say no to the old man.

But I didn’t go down without a fight.

For two days after Moira’s arrival, we fought.

He threw everything at me, and when I still denied him, he threw more. I pointed out that he was an old man, and that if I left, no one would take care of him. I promised that I would go… as soon as he died, but he was proving to be just as stubborn as I was.

He even became cruel with me, showing me a new side to the man I’d called my father for so many years. Paraila told me that I truly wasn’t welcome within the tribe. That he had insisted I stay only when he knew I had no other options, but now that he knew I had a family member back in the States that was eager to reconnect, he told me that he didn’t want me around anymore.

That hurt so badly that I lurched out of his longhouse, kicking over a basket of cassava flour in my sorrowful haste. I looked everywhere for Tukaba, feeling the need to pound away inside of her body to ease my frustration and anger, but she was nowhere to be found. I thought briefly about dragging the goddess-like woman named Moira into the jungle and forcing her to submit to me, but I was smart enough to know that would not be acceptable by her standards. So with no means for release, I grabbed my bow and quiver, heading deep into the jungle to find something to kill.

Paraila later apologized to me for his harsh words and, over a quiet dinner, made a last plea that finally caused me to surrender.

“Cor’dairo,” he had said, calling me “my son” in the old and almost extinct Caraican language. “Why do you fight me on this? This is not the life I would wish upon you.”

“But I’m happy here,” I told him while holding his hand.

“Maybe, but you may be happier elsewhere,” he said with a much stronger voice than I had heard from him in a while. “What kind of life is this… struggling day in and day out for survival? Father Gaul says that where you are going, you will have food overflowing and many opportunities laid before you. What do you have here? An old man and his shrew of a wife.”

“I have Tukaba,” I said with a wink. “She makes me plenty happy.”

“Yes, you have Tukaba, but she has many friends,” he said with a sly smirk.

I grinned back at him because Paraila and I always shared the same type of humor. Tukaba was, indeed, a woman that shared the pleasures of all the single men in the tribe.

“You deserve more than this meager life you lead, and I want to see you have a chance at real happiness before I die.”

“But Paraila—” I started to say, but he cut me off.

“No, Zacharias… son not of my loins but of my heart. I am begging you to go. For me… I am begging you. Give it a year and, if you wish, you may return. But for me… give it a chance and go with this new fortune.”

I stared at him, noting the sheen of tears in his eyes and the surety of his voice. It crashed all around me that I could not deny this man anything… not the man who had raised, protected, and even given me love when my parents died. I owed him my life. I would do anything he asked.

So I agreed to go.