Chapter 1
Zach
Two weeks ago…
I follow Moira out
of the airport and step out into the heat of Chicago. She told me
it’s summertime here in the United States, a concept that
doesn’t mean much to me other than it’s hot and it smells
funny, almost like a metallic scent, which is harsh to my nose. I no
longer smell the earthy, green scent of the Amazon, and a painful
longing for my home courses through me.
Moira leads us over
to a yellow car that I know is a taxi. I know it’s a car
because I remember them from my childhood. I know it’s a taxi
because my English-reading skills are still intact, and the word is
printed on the side. My native tongue did not languish during my
years living with the Caraicans, thanks to Father Gaul’s visits
over the years, as he spoke English as well as Portuguese. He not
only conversed with me in English at great length, but also brought
me books to learn from. I had a basic understanding of math concepts
and was fairly proficient on history and geography, having devoured
everything that I could get my hands on to read.
It’s funny…
how I recognize things. Living in the Amazon for the past eighteen
years, my memories of my prior life were like faded dreams, almost
like I could reach out and touch them, but they were just beyond my
grasp. I wondered how much learning I would have to do, and how much
of the “modern marvels” that Father Gaul used to talk to
me about would surprise me.
What I found was
that as I experienced the modern world, I found a distinct
familiarity in what I was seeing. For example, I had no memory of
traveling by plane to Brazil with my parents when I was a child. But
the minute I saw the little Cessna that took us from the Amazon River
into the capital of Brasilia, I knew I had been on one of those
planes before. I didn’t remember it… I just knew it. The
engine didn’t make me uneasy when it started, and I didn’t
have an inherent distrust of the concept of flying. While I didn’t
have specific memories of flying, as my fingers touched the glass
windows of the plane, I suddenly remembered what “glass”
was. The clear, hard material was not only familiar to me, but I
remembered my parents’ house in Georgia when I was little. I
remember running headfirst into a clear, sliding glass door and
knocking myself flat on my butt.
When we landed at
the airport, and Moira led me to a rental car, some clearer memories
did assault me. I remembered being in my parents’ car, sitting
in the backseat and maybe even holding a book that had bright
pictures in it. I even think I remembered my parents’ voices as
they talked with one another.
More things seemed
just inherently familiar. At the hotel where we stayed for a few
days, I was able to easily identify a variety of objects. The bed…
and pillows. Yes, I knew what a pillow was. Moira brought me into the
bathroom and explained how the toilet and the shower worked. It was
coming back to me in little bits and pieces.
Some of these
wonders I took advantage of. The shower was amazing; the water felt
cleaner and lighter than the river waters or standing puddles of
muddy rain that I would normally wash myself in. The smell of the
shampoo made me think fondly of the scent of water lilies. Brushing
my teeth for the first time in so many years was beyond incredible,
and I couldn’t stop running my tongue over my teeth, amazed at
how smooth they felt. No amount of scraping them with reed had ever
made them this clean.
Yes, all of these
things that were oddly familiar ended up being a comfort to me to
some extent. I didn’t have any real moments where I felt
overwhelmed by what I was experiencing… unless you count Moira
driving a little too fast through Brasilia. We stayed there for two
days, as I had to see a doctor for a health screening and to receive
vaccinations, and we had to get my new passport at the American
Embassy. While I had hoped that my passport would be denied, and thus
ending this ludicrous situation, it was pushed through when I was
able to show the consulate proof of my identity. That consisted of
mine and my parents’ original travel documents that I kept all
these years after they died, along with their wedding rings, one
family photo, and our family Bible. The secretary to the American
Ambassador personally handled my documents and gave me a warm,
congratulatory smile when she handed me my passport. I wanted to slit
her throat over her happiness that I was returning “home.”
I wasn’t happy about it, but everyone else thought it was a
wonderful thing.
There were some
things I had a hard time adjusting to. While I briefly cherished the
softness of the hotel bed, I found it a foreign feeling and thus
uncomfortable. I ended up sleeping on the floor each night. The
clothing that Moira had me put on before we boarded the Cessna was
constraining and scratched against my skin. I hated it. The minute I
was alone in my room, I stripped it all away and remained naked as I
was used to.
I refused to eat
with utensils, even though I immediately remembered what they were. I
didn’t do that out of any sense of unease, but rather did so to
show Moira that I would do as I pleased. If I thought I could get
away with shedding my clothes the entire time, I’d do so, but
Moira put a stop to that by telling me there were laws against it.
So I had to make do
with the little things, like refusing to use a fork and knife,
instead using my fingers to bring food to my mouth. I even shunned
the napkin I watched her use to dab at her mouth and wipe her
fingers, instead licking my fingers clean and once, even rubbing my
lips across the material of the shirt I wore just at my shoulder. I
refused to cut my hair when she suggested it, but she merely gave me
a small smile and didn’t say a word.
It makes me angry…
that she is just so accepting of my differences. I fully expect her
at some point to start “insisting” that I behave
according to these new cultural norms. Instead, she merely takes her
time explaining things to me, and only gives me the opportunity to
try something out. If I refuse, she only says, “Maybe some
other time.”
My feelings toward
this flame-haired woman cause dark feelings to twist within me. I
know she is not directly responsible for me leaving my home, yet I
loathe her as if she were the person who came up with this insane
idea. I know she is just doing her job… doing what my
“godfather” asked her to do, but my contempt for her is
as great as for this man named Randall Cannon. Two people that have
put into effect a series of events, which led me from a peaceful and
happy existence.
They are simply my
enemies.
Yes, Moira is my
enemy, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t been looking at her
the way a man looks at a woman. I have an unnatural attraction to the
woman with red hair and green eyes. It was immediate the first time I
laid eyes on her, sitting by the fire her first night in our village.
So very different from the women of Caraica… who are tiny with
brown skin and jet-black hair. When I walked into the village center,
Moira had looked at me directly, no shy eyes hiding the way Tukaba
would do unless I gave her tacit permission to gaze at me. Her hair
is a glorious mass of flame-soaked waves and her eyes the color of
jungle green. She reminds me of a wild and brilliantly colored bird
of the Amazon, but she moves with the grace of a jaguar. So very
different from what I am used to but immensely appealing, which I
find causes me shame.
Because I don’t
want to feel anything for this woman… my enemy… other
than the anger I’m carrying for the way she has turned my life
upside down. When we left the village, I was heartsick. Everyone had
turned out to wish me safe travel, and I could barely look at Paraila
for fear I would unman myself with tears. We started our hike to the
Jutai River around mid-morning, and I did my best to ignore Moira,
but that lasted only for so long.
We were getting
closer to the Jutai as I could smell the tang of river water on the
air. The red-haired woman, Moira, walked in front of me, with Father
Gaul just in front of her, and Ramon leading us all. She stumbled
every few feet over an errant vine or decomposing tree branch. She
seemed enthralled with the rainforest, looking all around at the
wildlife rather than where she should be walking.
She was an
interesting woman, I admitted. Father Gaul explained to me that she
was a teacher of some sort, her knowledge highly prized among her
peers. Her expertise was in something he called “anthropology,”
and she had made it her life to study the cultures of indigenous
tribes in the Amazon. Father Gaul told me that I had a godfather who
sent for me, and he hired this woman to be my teacher so that I could
learn how to be a proper American when I return.
I snorted
internally at the thought, vowing that I would never change a thing
about myself… no matter how much they wished otherwise.
I’d never
seen hair the color this woman possessed. It was as red as the
setting sun and long as well; she wore it in a massive braid down her
back. She was so different from the women of our tribe. So much
taller than them—the top of her head coming up to my shoulder
while theirs barely came to mid-chest. Her skin was pale, like the
color of the moon, and she had tiny, little brown dots sparsely
spread across her nose and cheeks.
I’d heard
her speaking English with Father Gaul. I was sure she knew I spoke it
as well, but she had stayed pretty far away from me since that first
night when she arrived in our village.
When I was inside
of Tukaba, taking my pleasure inside of her willing and warm flesh,
my entire focus was on the beautiful, red-haired woman who watched me
with fevered eyes. I imagined it was her body beneath mine, except I
knew she wouldn’t lay there quietly the way a Caraican woman