The day the world changed forever seemed like an ordinary day for the Nawatia tribe, which lived deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle. A handful of tribesmen with red-and-black lines painted over their faces stood along the riverbank enjoying a day of fishing. One of their best hunters, Takwa, brought a gourd to his mouth, tipping it high to drink the fermented brew contained within, taking a long guzzle. The colorful feathers in his hair hung back. After quenching his thirst, he let out a satisfied sigh, passing the coveted beverage to the man beside him.
It was then that Takwa looked to the sky. A passenger plane flew high overhead, leaving behind an iridescent misty trail. He pointed at it, calling out, “Look!”
All of the men stared at the strange flying beast. They didn’t often see a jumbo airliner this far from civilization.
Standing among them was a young man named Zachary. He was notably different from the others—tall and lanky with sandy-blond hair and fair skin that was perpetually sunburned. He had no painted lines on his skin, and instead of a loincloth, he wore cut-off jeans and a ragged t-shirt. He put his hand to his forehead to shield his green eyes from the sun as he gazed at the plane. Zachary frowned because he knew the exhaust fumes weren’t normal, or even exhaust. The pearly sheen of the far-reaching trail made it obvious something was amiss—at least to him.
Farther from the shore, wandering alone through the scrub was the tribe’s shaman, Pahtia, an older man with gray hair who was searching for the medicinal herb Pau D’arco, which, when found, would be cut and dried, then used at a later time as a remedy for warding off infections. He was also searching for the Chanca Piedra plant, which offered pain-relief qualities, but he stopped his quest when he noticed his fellow tribesmen staring at the sky. Curious, he hobbled through the underbrush, making his way to the clearing along the riverbank where the jungle canopy gave way to the open skies. There, he stood behind the other men, leaning on his staff while studying the plane’s exhaust trail that reflected the colors of the rainbow as it drifted through the cloudless sky—a hazy cord attached to the silver speck on the horizon.
Pahtia contemplated the situation, muttering, “Bad omen.”
Zachary overheard his father-in-law, and felt he was right. But at that moment, a fish nibbled on his bait. The young man needed to react quickly, otherwise, the catch would be lost. He jerked the line, swiftly sinking the hook into the mouth of an impressive-sized Pacu, one of the best-tasting fish in the Amazon, and large enough to feed them all—if he landed it.
The fish fought for its life, wriggling out of the water, shimmering in the sunlight before plunging back into the river.
The other men salivated at the thought of cooking the delicious fish in banana leaves over an open fire.
“Careful!” one of the men shouted.
“Not too fast,” another advised.
Takwa tried to steal the line from Zachary’s hand. “Let me do it.”
But Zachary resisted. It was his fish.
Takwa gave up, but stood nearby, irritated.
The Pacu flipped and flopped, desperate to free itself, causing the line to spin off the stick that served as the fishing pole.
“You are a bad fisherman!” Takwa growled.
Zachary ignored the criticism, rewinding the line, trying to exhaust the fish. His amateurish technique frustrated the other men.
The stakes were raised when a 12-foot Black Caiman, the largest member of the crocodilian family, noticed the commotion. The prehistoric creature slid into the river, gliding toward an easy meal. This predator was the perfect killing machine. It had armored skin, a mouth full of jagged teeth, and clear lenses that protected its eyes while attacking its prey. It was also incredibly fast when it wanted to be. And although caimans, like alligators and crocodiles, were not usually a threat to grown men, preferring smaller game and fish, one could never be too careful so Zachary kept an eye on the encroaching beast as well as his fish.
No longer a passive bystander, Pahtia warned his son-in-law, “Hurry up! Or you will lose it!”
Sweat beaded on Zachary’s forehead. Too fast, too slow. He tightened the line.
The caiman swished its tail more vigorously, closing the gap, its primordial eyes and ridged spine cutting through the rippling waters.
Then the reptile submerged.
The tribesmen knew the caiman would attack from below.
“Pull!” yelled Pahtia.
Zachary yanked the line with all his might, causing it to cut into his fingers as the fish flew into the air, bounding toward the shore.
Everyone’s eyes followed the glistening Pacu. The line slackened as the fish soared.
The caiman lunged from the water, opening its tooth-riddled jaws, consuming the entire fish and cutting the line before splashing back into the deep murky river.
The men groaned.
“You will never fit in,” Takwa jeered.
Pahtia sighed and rolled his eyes, annoyed by his son-in-law’s continual failures, but then he noticed the blood running down Zachary’s fingers. The healer knew the cut would fester in this hot and humid rainforest, easily turning into a life-threatening infection. Not wanting his daughter’s scorn, he reluctantly offered to help the young man, saying, “Come with me.”
Zachary sighed with indignation. He hated relying on Pahtia for anything, but it was better than staying here among the other men. Takwa’s contempt was obvious even with his back turned to him.
As Zachary followed Pahtia away from the river, he felt sorry for himself. He had tried to fit in, day after day, but living in the Amazon jungle was difficult, and a major cultural shock from his upbringing in New York City and later in rural Pennsylvania. Here, the children were taught from birth how to survive in the rainforest, avoiding the dangers that lurked in every nook and cranny. And even though Zachary had been here five years, he still had a lot to learn.
Pahtia led his son-in-law down a narrow path that wandered through dense foliage, tangled vines and ancient trees, heading to his hut on the outskirts of the village. Few tribe members visited the shaman there. Most only came to see him when they were sick or needed guidance. Pahtia’s powers scared them a bit. After all, if he had the power to heal, didn’t he also have the power to make them sick? Or worse? It wasn’t a totally unfounded fear. There were shamans who practiced black magic in the jungle for their own personal gain. But Pahtia wasn’t one of them.
As the two men walked along, a flock of green parrots scattered. From an overhead branch, a toucan studied them, its observant button eyes peering past its enormous black-tipped orange beak. Squirrel monkeys, hidden in the trees, hooted.
Pahtia hummed as he shuffled along, his staff steadying his gait. He was happiest away from the others. He liked being undisturbed while hunting for herbs or journeying to the spirit realm. He knew that one could only hear the spirits’ voices clearly when the mind was quiet.
The shaman’s thatched-roof hut came into view. Its walls were made of bamboo slats spaced evenly apart. The gaps allowed Pahtia to detect anyone approaching, yet still gave him some measure of privacy.
Inside, dried wild flowers, roots and herbs were tacked to the slats and hanging from the ceiling. Some were spread across the worktable.
Pahtia instructed Zachary to sit near the fire pit that he often used for cooking and simmering herbal concoctions.
The old man walked to the back of the hut where he rummaged through his assorted botanicals, selecting a few dried leaves and flowers, placing them in a stone bowl. He added a splash of masato, and then began grinding the ingredients together.
Meanwhile, Zachary sat near the cold ashes staring out the doorway, thinking about the ill-boding plane trail. “Pahtia?”
The shaman stopped mixing, looking up.
Zachary suggested, “Why don’t we visit Bechard and ask him about the plane?”
“Never again! That spirit tricked us.”
“He meant well.”
Pahtia shook his head. “He holds a darkness in his heart.” He tapped his chest to emphasize his point.
With a touch of irritation, he answered, “Yes?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about the plane.”
“I know.” The old man walked toward Zachary carrying the stone bowl. He sat down to finish mixing the compound.
“What should we do?”
“I am not sure. I will visit Maka later. She always has good advice.” Pahtia was referring to his spirit guide, who helped him with healings, divination and guidance on physical and spiritual matters.
He gathered a clump of the smelly herbal remedy with his gnarled fingers. “This will go on your wound to keep it from getting infected, and so Conchita will not be mad at me.” He added, “You can die from infection, you know.”
Zachary sighed. “Yes, I know.” He hated being treated like a complete idiot.
Pahtia shaped the clump into a ball, casually mentioning, “When I die, I will shapeshift into a great caiman.” His eyes gleamed as he imagined reincarnating as this noble reptile. “Maybe next time, I take your fish.” He let out a rare chuckle, annoying his son-in-law, and then began humming as he applied fresh salve to the young man’s injured fingers.
Too embarrassed to return to the fishing expedition, Zachary went home to Conchita, who was standing in their hut cradling their infant son. Her long black hair hung over part of her face as she gazed at the baby while singing a traditional lullaby. The moment Zachary saw his wife, he forgot all about the failed fishing attempt.
Conchita smiled at her husband, but it faded when she noticed his hand was bandaged with leaves and bamboo twine. She asked with concern, “What happened?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, wanting to forget the whole thing.
“Let me see it,” she insisted.
Zachary reluctantly held out his injured hand for inspection by the shaman’s daughter.
She balanced the baby on her hip while using her free hand to examine the patch job, sniffing to detect which herbs had been used, flipping his hand over to study the other side, finally conceding, “Father did a good job.”
“Yes, he did.” Zachary glanced around the hut, asking, “Where’s Eva?”
Conchita pointed out the doorway at the sunlit center of the village where the young children were having fun with a Capuchin monkey that jumped from one child’s shoulder to the next, playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can. Four-year-old Eva ran toward the scampering rascal with her hands outstretched, only to have the monkey leap over her sun-bleached curls, landing on top of another child’s shoulder. The children squealed with delight.
Zachary laughed at their antics until he glanced up at the sky. Remnants of the shimmering plane trail still lingered.
Conchita, noticing his troubled expression, asked him, “What is wrong?”
Zachary decided to shake off his worries. After all, what could he do about it? So instead of answering her question, he smiled, brushing Conchita’s long hair away from her face, kissing her neck, softly saying, “Nothing’s wrong. Sit with me.” He sat on the palm leaves that covered the floor, patting them with his uninjured hand to encourage her to join him.
She handed him the baby, then settled beside him. The father gently held his son in his arms. Conchita kissed the little one’s forehead to assure him that she was still nearby. The infant gurgled with elation as only babies can do. It was moments like this that Zachary remembered why he had come here.
During the night, Pahtia hobbled through the rainforest using his staff to steady his step. In his other hand, he held a burning torch to light the way. The moon and stars were hidden behind the dark storm clouds. Thunder pounded in the distance.
The old man quickened his step. He made his way across the empty village where everyone was safely tucked inside their huts, sound asleep.
He peered into one of the huts, past the lattice gate blocking the doorway, whispering, “Conchita…”
She stirred, but did not wake.
He held onto the doorframe, poking his staff through the gate, nudging his daughter.
Conchita opened her eyes and saw the silhouetted figure standing outside the hut. She wondered if she was dreaming. It wasn’t until a gust of wind blew, throwing the torch flames past Pahtia’s face, that she recognized him. “Father?”
He tersely said, “Come with me.”
Although groggy with sleep, she got up, quietly opening the gate, stepping outside, careful not to disturb her loved ones.
Conchita followed her father to the outskirts of the village, continuing down a barely visible path. Overreaching branches and vines, flailing in the storm’s gusts of wind, hindered their progress. A splash in the distance sent shivers down Conchita’s spine. She glanced behind herself, feeling an overwhelming urge to return to her children and husband. The farther she went, the stronger the urge became.
She stopped in her tracks, asserting herself, “I am not going. Not tonight. Tomorrow, I will come.”
Pahtia looked back at his daughter, solemnly stating, “I have something to share with you. But it must be tonight.” He continued along the path.
Lightening crackled overhead.
Against her better judgment, Conchita followed him. “Why not morning?” she asked, her voice nearly drowned out by the rolling thunder.
“Morning is too late,” he declared.
They reached Pahtia’s hut. The flames in the fire pit burned brightly, welcoming them home.
She sat near the fire in her usual spot, combing her windswept hair with her fingers while observing the storm brewing outside.
Meanwhile, Pahtia went to his workbench, reverently picking up a leather medicine pouch. He returned to sit beside his daughter. With sentimental eyes, he said to her, “You have been a good apprentice. Learned all I had to teach.” He set the medicine pouch on his lap so he could use both hands to remove the necklace from around his neck. A glistening stone amulet dangled from the leather cord. “This was my father’s, and now it is yours. Shaman to shaman.”
Conchita lowered her head to accept the gift. “Thank you.” It was a great honor to be declared a shaman. She looked down at the amulet that rested against her chest, picking it up, holding it between her fingers, still not believing the stone her father had worn since she was a child was now hers.
Pahtia continued, “I will ask my helper spirits to be your helpers. All that I have is now yours.”
He opened the medicine pouch’s drawstrings, reaching inside to take out a purple quartz cluster. He held it up between his bony fingers. “This has magical powers. Hold out your hand.” He placed it securely in her palm. “This stone holds the vibration of Mother Earth. Keep it safe.” He pulled out a jaguar’s curved claw. “Not Taslia,” he clarified, referring to his totem animal, which also happened to be a jaguar. “This was my first kill. I was brave and used only a spear. Very dangerous. Very strong energy.” He handed it to Conchita before he once more dug into his bag, removing a plant root. “This is a wise root. It knows the secrets of the rainforest.” Pahtia placed it in Conchita’s hand beside the other sacred articles. Next, he extracted a human tooth, staring at it as if he was remembering how he acquired it so many years ago, then, without an explanation, he returned it to the pouch.
“Father, why are you giving me these things tonight?”
“I had a vision, a prophecy. And in this vision, I saw blood-red skies and a snake slither out of its hole, standing like a man with a gold crown on its head. I heard the moaning of men and women in pain, lying on the ground. Too many to count. The snake took joy in their sorrow, eating them.”
“Stop it. You are scaring me.”
Pahtia became angry. “No daughter of mine is afraid!”
His harsh words made Conchita regret coming here.
Outside, the storm unleashed its heavy rains.
Pahtia’s demeanor softened. “Forget what I said. I know you are strong. Let us journey together one more time. I need to ask Maka for guidance.”
Conchita believed in her father’s prophecies, but that didn’t mean this one would happen tonight—maybe not even in their lifetime. However, he was more riled up about this one than usual. All she wanted to do was return home and sleep with her family, but the downpour made her hesitant to leave. Besides, she knew her father would prod her until she relented, so Conchita reluctantly agreed, “I will journey with you.”
“Good. Let me get the herb.” The shaman used his staff to stand up, stiffly moving across the floor.
Conchita noticed for the first time how much her father had aged. His frame was frail, and his hair was almost entirely gray. She looked away before he returned.
Pahtia sat beside his daughter once more. He said a prayer while bringing the herb closer to his face, honoring it. He dropped the sacred leaves into the fire. Smoke burst out of the flames, billowing all around them.
The pair closed their eyes, breathing deeply, letting the smoke fill their lungs.
The shaman called for his totem animal, “Taslia, please come!”
A moment later, from out of the storm, an ethereal black jaguar padded through the doorway, entering the smoke-filled hut. The ghostly feline stood there swishing her tail while her golden eyes reflected the flames. The totem animal contained the archetypal powers of strength and courage—attributes that would help Pahtia face the dangers encroaching upon him and his tribe.
The shaman acknowledged Taslia’s presence, “Thank you, old friend, for coming. I need to speak to Maka. Will you please take us to her?”
Pahtia’s spirit rose out of his body. He climbed onto the jaguar’s back.
Conchita’s spirit sat behind her father’s.
The big cat carried the pair out of the hut, entering the mystical realm of the jungle. Rain fell from the pitch-black sky, dripping off the ethereal leaves as they moved through the shadowy trees.
Conchita held tightly on to her father. Even if they weren’t in mortal danger, she knew they were surrounded by spirits—most were benevolent, but some were malicious.
Pahtia, on the other hand, was enjoying the ride, listening to the jungle sounds while taking in the sights. He breathed deeply, smelling the humus aroma the rain brought to the surface. The wet leaves dragging across his face and exposed arms didn’t irritate him. Instead, the cold austere contact made him feel alive.
The rain ceased when they moved through a mist and into another realm.
Strolling out of the trees, the totem animal carried its riders to a waterfall reflecting the moonlight as it cascaded into the ebony lake below.
Pahtia dismounted. He ambled through the ferns, standing at the edge of the dark water, calling out, “Maka! Please come!”
Conchita, who had trailed behind her father, stood by his side.
A ball of light appeared from out of the starry sky, hovering over the lake. It expanded into the form of a beautiful woman, who wore white-fringed animal skins decorated with colorful feathers and beads. Her black hair hung down to her knees. The spirit guide gave the visitors a warm smile, saying, “Greetings! It is good to see you again.”
Pahtia bowed his head out of respect, solemnly replying, “Greetings to you as well, Maka. Thank you for coming. We need your help. I believe the end is near.”
“The end of what, dear Pahtia?”
“The end of this life—for me and my tribe.”
“Pahtia, you know there is no death. Only change. Why do you falter now?”
The shaman bolstered his chest, touting, “I do not falter! I came for help.”
“I understand your concerns, but keep this in mind. That which seems to be the end is always the beginning. Trust that this is so. To take away the impending change would hinder your spiritual growth. This I cannot do.”
The beautiful spirit guide turned to face Conchita. “This change will be the most difficult for you. Remember these words in the days to come: You are the bearer of the light—an integral part of overcoming the darkness that has lasted for far too long. Great challenges await many.
“Remember, for the caterpillar to become a butterfly is a difficult process—one that requires a tremendous amount of trust as it molts many times before the metamorphosis completes itself. But never does the butterfly mourn the loss of its former self. Although, for the caterpillar, the transformation feels like death.”
Maka’s body glowed brighter and brighter until she was lost in the brilliance, breaking into a thousand sparkling lights, dissipating into the night.
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