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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

The old guy makes no effort to be friendly back. He has a leathery face, cracked and wrinkled, like a catcher’s mitt that has been left out in the sun all season. His hair is white, and when he opens his mouth I see only three teeth. But wizened and worn down though he may be, his eyes are penetrating and they scrutinize me with care.

They remind me of the Mysterious Kidah’s eyes. Come to think of it, this old shaman bears more than a passing resemblance to the sphinxlike figure who croaked out the word “destiny” to me in my out-of-body vision.

This shaman now literally holds Eko’s and my destinies in his gnarled old fingers, and he doesn’t look favorably disposed. He scowls at us and asks a few questions of the warriors who brought us back.

The warriors reply, pointing to Eko’s index finger, and no doubt describing how she drew a picture on the air.

The old medicine man grumbles. He’s not happy, or maybe the spirits he communes with are not pleased. At any rate, he looks like he’s ready to sign our death warrants. His face hardens as he looks us up and down one last time, and I notice that the women and kids have pulled back, and the warriors have stepped closer and are holding weapons.

Eko, we should run for it.

Don’t move.

The warrior standing nearest to me flicks his eyes from my neck to my heart to my groin. He’s measuring me for a strike and trying to choose between death spots.

Eko, this shaman doesn’t like us one bit. If he gives a thumbs-down, they’re going to slice and dice us. Let’s at least make a fight of it.

No, stay still and remain silent. Keep smiling.

I smile at the warrior, who seems to have settled on my throat as the best target. He looks back impassively, his fingers tightening on his spiked war club.

Then an odd thing happens. The fierce old shaman looks shocked for a second, and then he steps forward, peers up into Eko’s face, and breaks into a wide grin.

Next the stone-faced warriors break into smiles, and finally the women and kids start to catch whatever happy germs are going around. They giggle and flash grins at Eko.

I take it you figured out a way to get through to them? I ask Eko.

She’s smiling back at them. Yes. They have such lovely, uncluttered minds.

They were about to slaughter us.

It was nothing personal or cruel. They love but they don’t hate. Death is a natural part of life for them. It’s all around them, in the rain forest every day.

The kids run back up to us, smiling and laughing. They take our hands and lead us forward. All of a sudden we’re the flavor of the day again.