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
“BEYA, WE NEED YOUR HELP. FRANNY-A IS SICK. SHE’S DYING. WE ARE IN THE CLINIC. PLEASE COME.”
As I spoke the words in my head, a buzzing sensation traveled through my teeth and jaw, down my neck to my shoulders, arms, fingers. I knew I had done it—even if she hadn’t heard me, even if she wasn’t listening or chose to ignore me—I knew I had spoken to her.
The sun beat at my face, the vicious jungle air seared my throat.
“ANSWER ME . . .”
I made my mind an empty thing, a blank canvas on which she could paint her words back to me, send a picture, an emotion, anything.
Silence. Emptiness.
One of the vultures spread its enormous black-and-white wings as if to dry them in the sultry air; the others did the same, like a wave, one after the other, till the first one flapped his closed and the others followed suit, all one vulture mind.
I squeezed my eyes shut and silenced my clamorous mind for a second time. Waited for the delicious hush, the lull, the pulsing calm. In my mind’s eye I saw my open mouth, heard myself calling to her in English, then Spanish, then English again. I called up the image of FrannyA lying prone, suffering; I showed her the woman’s blank face staring at the ceiling of the hut, the way her ankles were tied and bleeding. I showed her FrannyB’s face in devastation; held all this in my mind’s eye until I couldn’t anymore and shards of the picture broke away into the smudgy blue and black shapes behind my eyes. Exhaustion and dizziness flooded me.
I opened my eyes.
Just the dusty path before me, the unforgiving sky above. Tapping one last dram of energy, I sent one more message: “WELL, FUCK YOU, THEN.” In defeat, I turned back to the clinic. I’d taken only a few steps before I heard the whoosh of a machete clearing a path. Bit by bit, as the vines and branches fell, Beya emerged from the matted tangle of forest.
TWENTY-NINE
Without a word to each other, we took slow steps up the ladder to the clinic. My body felt heavy, legs swollen, my shoulder blades burning, as if my bug bites had gathered together in one large wound.
The air in the hut was thick with heat. Rough cloth squares had been nailed over the windows. A half dozen votive candles flickered close to FrannyA, who had stopped fighting her bonds and lay muttering to herself. Her shirt had been unbuttoned to just under her breastbone and her belly lay exposed, the rest of her draped with the stiff cuts of cloth, modesty intact. Her rib cage rose sharply like two bony hands meeting; her belly concave, breaths quick and shallow.
Beya made her way to the sick woman’s feet. Candlelight sparked in each eye. Bright yellow feathers sprung back from her ears like canaries in a cage of blackness. Her net bag hung from a belt around her waist; the material jerking this way and that.