Authors: David Faxon
Later in his room
, he removed a ceiling panel and reached for the long blowgun. No one else knew it existed. The occasions when he practiced were always in private with the door locked. From twenty feet away, he was deadly accurate. He unwrapped the weapon from its thin leather covering, admiring its beauty. Made centuries before, it had mysterious symbols and markings carved into its teak. It held a certain fascination. With the long, slender weapon, was a small vial of the syrupy
curare,
sealed, never opened. He had the tools, now he would perfect the scheme.
He held the blow gun admiringly.
The one thing the Indians did right, and he would use it to his advantage. He took the bottle of
curare
, uncorked it and sniffed the brown liquid; a strange odor. One he liked. He dipped one dart into the bottle, covering the tip with poison about one half inch up, then placed the dart on a clean cloth to dry. He took the remaining darts and practiced on a small target no more than two inches in circumference. He blew six darts from twenty feet, all in the target area.
The senator spent his last afternoon resting and reading after making his phony speech. Some were convinced that he would champion their rights when he returned to Brasilia; others said he was a windbag. Press releases were already prepared for the major newspapers, touting his contribution to Indian rights. He returned to his room earlier than he thought. It was only six o'clock. Three more hours. He would have to be patient.
Dinner
arrived at seven. To his surprise, it was actually well prepared. He finished eating at seven thirty, smoked the Cuban cigar left on his dinner tray, and by eight, went back to reading his magazine in eager anticipation for the arrival of the prostitute.
Promptly at nine, there was a knock on his door. Before him stood the most striking Indian girl he had ever seen. Maybe he shouldn’t have treated De Santana
so roughly. He motioned her in, at the same time removing his shirt.
“ What is your name?”
“My name is Lateri.”
Reyes wasted
scant time forcing her onto the bed, tearing off her clothes. The odor from his sweaty body sickened her. She closed her eyes, yielded, and thought someday she would get even, then pretended to be in another place, another time. Once again, she was ashamed and humiliated. Even if she made it back to her village, there would always be those who suspected her of being complicit. She seethed with anger. She had nothing left to lose. Life was intolerable. The vengeance that grew in her heart, and the hearts of many she knew, would someday know no limits.
A
cross the room, she saw a partially open window. A warm evening breeze ruffled the tattered curtain. She looked over Reyes’ shoulder and caught a glimpse of a blowgun extending beyond the sill. It happened in an instant. Something familiar registered in her mind, but she wasn’t immediately aware of what it was. The sound of a whoosh of air, then abruptly, the senator ceased his rhythmic motion. The curare tipped missile punctured the skin below his left ear. Deadly poison entered his blood stream. He straightened, brought his left hand up and pulled out the dart, looking at it as if it were an annoyance, or an insect he had just swatted.
“
Que es eso? You! I ought to…”
He raised his fist, then stopped.
Lateri knew what would happen next. She held her breath, not saying a word, not daring to make the slightest move, watching the senator’s face contort. In another few minutes, she would be free of this beast.
His breathing bec
ame difficult as asphyxia choked the air from his lungs. Gasping, he fell to the floor, eyes open, consciously aware he was suffocating to death, but unable to stop it. Lateri watched his pleading eyes as he died slowly. She could imagine the panic in his mind, but felt no sympathy. He was getting what he deserved. She remained stationary for what seemed like forever, then it was over. The influential and powerful Senator Reyes succumbed to a tiny amount of poison on a well-aimed dart.
She dressed in a hurry, exited by the open window, not stopping to think that maybe she would be murdered also. It all happened so fast she didn’t have time to think. What was it that seemed so familiar? Something buried in her subconscious.
She ran half-dressed into the pitch-black night, past guards, past the bordello and toward her family's hut. Who knew she was with Reyes when he was killed? Would they come for her? Would they accuse her of killing him? Any other night she would be afraid of encountering some kind of animal on a nocturnal prowl, but the hideous nightmare she just experienced, swept that aside. She saw the hut and burst through the door expecting to see Yeharau in the hammock where she left him earlier. She wanted to run to him, hear his calm voice, but he wasn't there. She turned with pleading eyes to her mother.
“Father! Where is he?”
“He is gone.”
“Where?”
“Looking for you. I could not stop him.”
The next morning, a group of De Santana's men found
Yeharau not far from the saloon. They dragged him from under a building. He offered no resistance. Still, they beat him severely and accused him of murdering the senator. They pushed him in front of a gathering crowd that wondered what the excitement was about. De Santana appeared and told everyone that Yeharau was responsible. Several had witnessed the previous night’s episode. He reminded them of how he threatened to kill both him and the senator.
“You saw what happened in the saloon yesterday! If not, you’ve heard about it by now. You people don’t know what’s good for you, but
this one is going to pay! Get him out of here!”
The crowd was silent. No one came forward to
refute the accusation. They knew the conclusion was foregone. Two hours later, Yeharau, eyes puffed and bleeding, was shoved on the small plane. It was the last time that Lateri, or anyone else, would see him. As they forced him aboard, Lateri screamed his innocence until De Santana hit her and she fell. From a small window, Yeharau gave a forlorn look as the engines revved, kicking up dust. The plane sped down the runway. Lateri watched as it become a tiny speck in the sky. Then she remembered what it was she saw in the window the previous night. A short while later, she would be put on a supply boat and sent to the new project location. Once the plane left and the excitement died, De Santana hurried to his compound and placed a call to Castelo Branco’s private number. He opened a beer, turned on a small recording device and held it to the phone.
I should have done this sooner,
he thought.
“Well done, Paulo. You never cease to amaze me. There is nothing to tie you to the murder.”
De Santana felt like saying.
Me? What do you mean, me? What about you?
“I think the newspapers will be full of the story by the end of the day. We will be asked to give a statement.”
“Don't worry. I will take care of everything. Reyes was useful to me. I will miss his influence, but he knew too much. He could have interfered with my plans much too easily. Now he's out of the way and
this simplifies things, my friend. Oh, and there will be a generous reward for disposing of him. Expect it in the next week or so. As soon as you finish organizing the expedition down river and your replacement arrives, I'm giving you a week in Rio. Have a little fun. It's all been arranged.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Naru watched listlessly as a glowing red sun disappeared below the tree line. The concept of time didn’t have much meaning before, but now she was acutely aware of its significance. She still refused to believe that Teman-e would never return. The mere thought of him could make her eyes fill. She missed their quiet conversations, the games he played with the children, necklaces he made special for her. Yes, he made them for his other wives too, but she was his favorite and they deferred to her.
When a man of the
Machi-te tribe was without a woman for whatever reason, other tribe members would share their wives. Teman-e always offered one of his, but never did he offer Naru. Clearly, the others held secondary status. Now that he was gone, they began to treat her differently, with a noticeable lack of respect. At first, the loose comments and squabbling angered her, but there were more important things to worry about. Immediately after Teman-e’s disappearance, others sympathized, tried to help, knowing it wouldn’t be long before she had a new husband. But the time allowed for her grief to subside grew lengthy, far beyond what was expected. The others began to look upon her with scorn. Naru’s comeliness and fertility made her desirable to several young men who vied strongly for her attention. If she didn’t choose one soon, Guardara would choose for her. He knew who that man would be and secretly manipulated to bring about the union.
Chora
was recently elevated in status when he slew a rival tribesman. The killing was vengeance driven, not the result of open combat or self-defense. Those were considered more honorable reasons. He waited an entire day to ambush his victim, killing him with a single blow from behind. Had he challenged his opponent, then beat him in combat, his status among the village population would have been solidified. Nevertheless, Guardara bestowed him with full tribal honors, a surprise to many. A move that would one day make him chief and shaman of the tiny tribe. Shortly thereafter, he was chosen to be Naru’s mate.
Naru saw nothing in him
. In her estimation, he lacked Teman-e's ways and leadership abilities. Besides, she wasn’t ready to take a new husband. She became more obstinate, less willing to consider the chief’s advice. In the meantime, Chora made overtures, promising to bring her meat from the next hunt. Her response was only a nod and weak assent, which he took as a rejection. She failed to display the enthusiasm expected, a rebuff that caused him to lose face. This proved dangerous, since in the eyes of Guardara, she was eligible and could not remain a burden to the tribe. Equally as important, was her value as a reward to the favored Chora. She was rebellious, out of favor and close to becoming an outcast.
Naru knew
that one day she would take another husband, but for now, remained oblivious to the thought. It held no attraction. Then too, she was filled with remorse. Her tacit approval had strengthened Teman-e’s conviction to go that day, something she would always regret. There was no real comprehension as to why, only that he was in turmoil. When he didn't return after several nights, it caused no alarm. He was sometimes gone as long as eight days on extended hunting trips. But when days became weeks, and weeks became months, she sank into depression, showing little interest in Chora despite his efforts. She mourned long enough, they said. For her, it could never be too long. One day, she went to the river alone. There, she always found solace.
Stung by her rejection, a brooding Chora followed. He watched from the bushes with increasing anger. His pride
badly injured from the cutting remarks about his lack of virility, he retreated into sullen wrath. He would deal with his detractors eventually, and one might die. For now, he would teach this woman a lesson.
When Naru finished bathing, she walked the trail leading back to the village. Chora aggressively blocked her path. Instinctively, she knew what he intended
to do and bolted. It was too late. He grabbed her and held one hand tightly over her mouth.
He
dragged her into the bushes, threw her to the ground and beat her mercilessly. Every bit of his wounded pride was in the force of his blows. He left her sobbing hysterically.
This never would have happened if Teman-e hadn't gone away
, she thought.
An hour later, she limped back
into the village where the other wives saw her bruised and swollen face. Her first thought was for her children.
“Can you help me feed them?”
But no one offered. Her obstinacy made her a pariah, but it was more than tribal law. It was jealousy. Guardara would become aware of the attack and most likely do nothing. She suffered in silence, knowing the dangers that lie ahead. Ignoring the stares and mocking slurs from the women, she gathered her children and went to her hut.
By beating and humiliating her, Chora reestablished his standing
among the men. In the eyes of many, it was something that needed doing. Surely now she would change her mind. Although no mention was made of the incident, the taunting, obscene, remarks about his virility, ceased. All he had to do was get her to accept him publicly, and the stain on his manhood would disappear. Naru knew what he was capable of. The next time could be worse, much worse. But she hoped her husband's status would prevent Guardara from condoning any further punishment.
The next morning
Chora appeared at her hammock, again bearing food and gifts. Several villagers looked on, anxiously awaiting her reaction. She continued weaving her basket, swollen eyes cast to the ground, with no intention of looking at this man who had defiled her. She would risk the consequences before accepting anything he offered. He placed the food before her, awaiting an approval that never came. Each minute that passed made him boil with anger. From a distance, Guardara watched the scene unfold and made a decision. Finally, Chora stormed away toward the chief’s hut. This time, she had gone too far.