In a lilting call-and-response pattern, the women sang and chanted as they worked; the rhythm soothing, a narcotic. Every now and then, one of their children would run in, their eyes wide with an instinctual fear of sickness. The women would turn them, nudging them toward the main living area where another adult would scoop them up and take them away, cooing.

As the poultice dried, it hardened like clay. The women pressed down gently, snapping off sections, then brushing off the remainder with their hands. Piles of green flakes surrounded me. The second they were done with one round, they applied another wet layer, each time singing and chanting over that area, blowing smoke at me from a banana-leaf cigar. Each time a fresh layer was ladled over me, tiny daggers stabbed deeper, battling their cellular war. I shut my eyes picturing this, trying to rally my own weakened defenses. I don’t remember making a sound.

In a few days, I was able to get up and walk around a little bit; the pregnant teenager who was so fond of my hair—the one who brought me the calabash of water that first day—constantly at my side. Bright crimson stained her face from ear to ear; an iridescent beetle-wing bracelet shone on her small wrist. Her name sounded like Pulia; Omar said it meant “Sprouting Leaf.”

She brought me water to bathe in, took my dress away, washed and boiled it, then brought it back decorated with a circle of kapok fluff the women had sewn in around the neckline; they believed the spirits of the tree would help protect me.

Omar and Splitfoot talked late into the evenings, cooking fires popping and smoking all around them. Among the gentle chatter of the women as they peeled manioc and nursed babies, the soft thud of their bare feet as they swept the hard dirt floors, men smoking and repairing weapons, I felt—for those few days—immersed in a cocoon of humanity I never felt in Ayachero, or really anywhere I had ever been before or since. I felt like an infant; in fact, the part of me that remained infantile took note, soaked it all in, let myself be healed in all sorts of ways. Mostly I lay on my mat, my fever spiking then easing with each application of the poultice, the women tirelessly applying it to the places on my body I couldn’t reach, or making sure the dry patches were brushed off and fresh salve applied. I was grateful for the agony each dosing brought; I could feel the battle tilting my way. It’s going to be okay, I told my baby, you’re going to be welcomed into the world, you’re going to be loved.

I listened to the creak of the hammocks as the men slept in shifts; for safety reasons, at no time was the entire village asleep. Sprouting Leaf was always at my side when I woke, either sleeping next to me or tending to my lesions. Omar taught me a few words of Tatinga, translating Sprouting Leaf’s endless stream of chatter. She said that the plants wouldn’t work unless I had a good heart; since she could see I was healing, the women were happy to help. Mostly she talked about wanting to be a shaman, but that she had a lot of training to do and was looking for a teacher. She told us that Beya had eased a terrible fever her father had suffered, with a tincture made from a certain kind of bark, and asked us countless questions we couldn’t answer about whether she might return.