The hunters dropped their game to the dusty earth; monkeys, the tortoise, a bagful of birds blow-gunned through the eyes. Two prepubescent girls grabbed the howler monkey, which still had life in it and started to claw at them. Without a second’s hesitation—as the smaller girl stood by with a thorn-studded club—the taller of the girls snatched it by its snare-tied legs and swung it hard against a pole that supported the roundhouse until its limbs hung loose. In no time the creature lay facedown over a sizzling grate. So much death, but just as in Ayachero, no one blinked an eye.

As word of our arrival spread, tides of people spilled out from every part of the roundhouse, even from the roof. Small, powerfully built bodies sprinted in our direction before stopping just yards from us, as if this was an agreed-upon distance. Everyone wore the jaguar whiskers: long quills were embedded in the solemn faces of the adults; on children, short palm shoots. Even babies were painted with dark blue lines from their mouths to their ears, exactly like Beya. I wondered if she’d removed her quills in an attempt to conform to Ayacheran life.

Naked except for the occasional red breechcloth and countless strands of black, brown, and red beads around their necks, wrists, and ankles, the women wore their hair long with straight-cut bangs. Cooking pots hung suspended from poles around small fires; other trinkets: small mirrors, flashlights, combs, sunglasses—gifts from the Frannies, I assumed—had been thrown in careless piles in the gloom of the roundhouse.

Everyone began talking at once. MiddleEye, clearly unhinged—even the Tatinga cut him a wide berth—strutted back and forth, jabbering and gesturing back at us, fury animating his movements. At intervals, he took off and swaggered around the entire perimeter, calling to those who remained in the shadows. Most of the men smiled at his ranting, which slightly lessened their threatening look; only on the very young children did the cat quills look innocent.

“He’s bragging about how he found us,” Omar said under his breath. “Telling people I fought and lost. He’s never been right in the head.”

MiddleEye, hearing Omar consult with me, whipped his head around and glared at us. Roaring, he charged full speed at Omar, stopping with his face an inch from his, white froth rimming his mouth. The anger was real, but also certainly for show; still, my heart beat out of my chest. Omar stayed immobile, expressionless, my hand nearly crushed in his.

Breaking the face-off, a chubby middle-aged woman snatched a pair of aviator sunglasses from a pile of gifts, jammed them on her face and ran up to me, long breasts swinging, hair flying back in twisted ropes dyed dark purple and deep red. In the reflective lenses my filthy, pale face twisted in fear as the woman—chattering away—palpated my breasts as if she were assessing fruit at the market. Everyone seemed amused. Omar did nothing.

Long seconds passed until I couldn’t take it anymore. My arm lifted up to smack her away, but Omar caught it and forced it down. “Let her,” he hissed.