FrannyB lay the cross over the box and turned to face the silent crowd. “Oh, Lord, bless this place where the boy Benicio was taken by the forest devil in the shape of a jaguar, for the souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, and no torment will ever touch them. The Lord God has tested him and found young Benicio to be worthy of Himself, like gold in the furnace. Benicio will live in peace forever at his side . . .”

Something rustled in the forest behind her. Her sweating, pale face twitched as her voice trailed off into the drone of insects. She turned, took a step back. From the wall of green emerged a mosaic of color in the form of two men, each around five feet. Bright streaks of red stain zigzagged from mouths to earlobes; six-inch porcupine quills bristled on either side of full lips; turquoise and yellow macaw feathers dashed back from stretched earlobes. Bowl-cut ebony hair just grazed the shining foliage behind them. Except for strings of twisted fiber that reached down from around their waists to the tips of their penises, wrapping the foreskin in a small knot, they were naked.

Franz and Anna took a few steps backward, tucking Claudia between them. The ranks of the villagers shifted as the men placed themselves in front of their wives and children. Omar whispered under his breath to me, “Tatinga.”

“Stay calm, everyone, stay calm.” FrannyB tucked her Bible under one arm and held out a flattened hand with the other.

The taller tribesman stepped forward, pectorals bulging under his necklace of peccary incisors, lean muscle roping hips and thighs. Twin quivers packed with blowgun darts crossed his chest. Under one arm he carried a small canoe, a child-sized version of the dugouts both the villagers and tribes used.

A wave of language rippled from the men.

“What did they say?” Anna said.

FrannyB shifted to her other foot, took a rag from her pocket, and wiped her forehead. “They’ve brought a death canoe. They say they’re here to mourn the child.” She replied to the men in rapid-fire Tatinga. Their expressions—serious, grim mouthed—did not change.

“What did she say?” I whispered to Omar.

Not taking his eyes off the men, he said quietly, “ ‘We’re trying to bury our dead. We don’t need your presence here.’ ”

The man with the canoe took a step forward, chin high as he defiantly looked into the eyes of the villagers, one by one. He said in halting Spanish, “The boy had an enemy. This is why he died. We are here to say this boy is not our enemy. Our shaman, Splitfoot, runs with the jaguar in his dreams, but he did not call this one down to the Tortoise Beach. You need to find out who is the boy’s enemy, to avenge his death.”

“This boy had no enemy,” FrannyB answered in Spanish. “His only enemy was the jungle itself, this nest of poisons and demons and sin.”