Night fell. The jungle erupted into a cacophony of hoots, grunts, wails, and caws. A guttural scream brought silence to the entire rain forest. She jerked her head and stared into the blackness. Her own hand was invisible to her.

She fought a growing panic. Could she survive another moonless night on the river? Proceeding was terribly risky. At any moment the canoe might crash into a fallen tree, a boulder, or a low-lying bridge, spilling her into water infested with crocodiles and river sharks. Worse, she didn’t know when the river might turn into rapids that could send her swirling beneath the brackish water.

The danger was unavoidable; she had to reach the coast. If she failed, the village—everything she had ever known—would die.

Hour after hour, she rowed. Exhaustion overcame her. She finally stopped rowing and let the current carry her. She closed her eyes. She slept. She dreamed. A dark-skinned little girl approached her with a white rose of Sharon.

“Where did you find this, Miraba?”

“By the river.”

“This flower doesn’t grow in our jungle.”

“There was only one.”

The girl placed the flower at her own feet. It grew, slowly enveloping her.

“I’m going for help, Miraba. Hold on.”

“Xén, bi náana ‘nû ten la.” My heart is with you always, Mama.

She woke when her face hit the water. She gasped and sucked in a mouthful of black liquid. She tried coughing it out but only sucked in more. Her feet thrashed, and her arms flailed, and she moved through the water—whether up or down, she didn’t know. Her head smashed into something solid. She stopped momentarily, dazed.

I have to breathe!

She raised her hands above her head and felt an object. The canoe. She thrust upward to her right, her head finally breaking the surface. She gasped, retched, and reached for the canoe. She touched it and clung to it and coughed up black water. She wanted nothing more than to hold on and simply drift downstream. But that was likely fatal. She had to get back into the dugout.

Hand over hand, she silently made her way to the stern. She placed one hand on each side of the canoe and lunged upward, lifting her torso out of the water and onto the craft. She lunged again, her waist straddling the stern. The canoe tipped precariously. Guardedly, she dragged her legs onto the canoe and collapsed inside.

In sudden desperation she ran her hands along the inside of the canoe. Where is my paddle? She felt something move under her palm and grasped it. The paddle. She briefly breathed a sigh of relief, then resumed a frantic search of the canoe but failed to find her other vital possession: her knife. She was defenseless.