Above us, an identical cry rang out; an answering call, followed by a rush of wind as the biggest eagle I’d ever seen barreled down through the canopy, claws open and hurtling down at the big poacher’s face, its red-rimmed eyes enraged. Yelping, Carlos disappeared under an eight-foot wingspan of furious raptor, an explosion of black-and-white feathers obscuring his prone body. The men grappled for their weapons but didn’t shoot.

A ripping sound, of tendon from bone. An agonized shriek under the powerful shoulders of the bird. With two or three powerful flaps of its massive wings, the harpy eagle lifted itself off the poacher, one of his blue eyes and part of his cheek in its talons. It thumped and heaved itself through the cleared circle skyward, stringy red and yellow pieces of flesh hanging down, headed—I imagined—straight toward its canopy-top nest, where its naked, screeching young demanded to be fed.

Beya and I were forgotten as the men circled the howling, sobbing Fat Carlos. They lifted and carried him away. By nighttime, their boat was gone. I thought, Ayachero is safe, the grove is safe. I will never see these men again.

How wrong I was.

THIRTY-ONE

– NOVEMBER –

The voices of the hunters woke me at dawn, Omar’s among them. I threw aside my mosquito netting and sat up, listening for a while, letting myself cry with relief.

After nearly three weeks, Omar and the men had come home.

From the top of the stairs, I watched the entire population of the village pour from their huts and gather at the beach. Under a sky laden with clouds, the last two boats swung around the elbow of the river, jutting into the soft sand. The hunters and their helpers leapt from the boats, hurrying into their families’ embrace.

A massive bull tapir weighed down the center of one of the boats; it looked to be two or even three hundred pounds. It was flanked by a couple of brocket deer: small, delicate-boned Bambis that to me seemed the strangest animal of all to call the jungle home: What defense did they have except perhaps speed? Trussed to a bamboo carrying pole by its giant ham hocks, the tapir took four men, including Omar, to lift onto shore and carry up the bank.

In no time, the bonfire blazed and the singing, drinking, and dancing had begun. There were no more batteries to play the radios, so a couple of the men brought out beat-up guitars and rapped on empty jerry cans for percussion as they gathered around the fire.

Step-by-step, I made my way to Omar; at eight months along, running was a thing of the past.

After unloading the enormous catch, Omar turned toward me. He looked thinner, exhausted, but all in one piece.

He put his arms around me and must have said something, but a hush of sound in my head blocked it all out.

Suddenly feverish and weak, I pushed him away, our baby in me kicking and turning, my swollen breasts aching with every step. I remember saying something about wanting to lie down for a few minutes in the longhouse. I staggered away, reaching for the smooth handrail, making it up three steps before a drunken sort of dizziness hit me. My grip weakened as my legs jellied at the knees; black curtains drew closed on both sides of my vision.