Into the Jungle
Contents ( 49)
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR ERICA FERENCIK
“A compelling read.”
—Holly FitzGerald, author of Ruthless River
“A complete tour de force.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, national bestselling author of Trust Me
“Absolutely intense! You’ll be on the edge of your seat until the very last word.”
—Crystal King, author of The Chef’s Secret and Feast of Sorrow, long-listed for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize
“I spent hours balled up and tense, hunched over every word, deliciously creeped out, and finally out for blood.”
—Susan Bernhard, author of Winter Loon
“A thrilling saga full of vibrant, memorable characters [that] electrifies you with the nerve-jangling challenges they face.”
—Joanna Schaffhausen, author of No Mercy
“Raw, relentless, and heart-poundingly real, this book knocked me off my feet like a river in spate.”
—Ruth Ware, New York Times bestselling author of The Turn of the Key, on The River at Night
“[A] heart-pounding debut novel.”
—Oprah.com on The River at Night
“Terrifyingly real and impossible to put down.”
—Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling author of Come Find Me, on The River at Night
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For George
A shaman is not a shaman until she brings back her gifts.
—Source unknown
PROLOGUE
It was past midnight, some lonely, small hour of the morning. Naked, I dropped to my knees at the shore. Moonlight glowed on the mist that roamed and drifted just above the glistening black river. I lifted a gourd full of river water and poured it over my hugely pregnant body, not caring what—or who—was watching or crawling toward me from the steaming jungle that loomed behind me. I would have done anything—was doing anything—for relief from the heat that was driving me half out of my mind, crushing me like a giant hand. I took bites of hot, sharp air. Waited for any sort of breeze. Filled the gourd again and again, drenched myself, gasping.
But the moment the water flowed off my flesh, I stippled again with sweat. My breasts glowed golden in the starlight, my nipples like sprung plugs, belly swollen drum tight, unrecognizable as my own. I squeezed my eyes shut—even my eyelids were sweating—trying to picture the beloved face of this child’s father, Omar, out hunting for game so we could survive. All around me night creatures—insects, frogs, birds—hummed, croaked, and chattered, their calls breaking off now and then as they listened for their predators’ approach.
Throwing the calabash aside, I pushed myself to my feet, stumbling up the short walk on hardened dirt to our hut. It had been three weeks since Omar and the rest of the hunters had been gone, weeks in which my belly exploded with growth. I felt the jungle wanting life, life craving more life, and I felt just one more obscene part of it; like the strangler figs choking the trees, this baby was taking me over, tapping every ounce of my strength.