Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [148]
I found myself liking them.
Like the Maghuin Dhonn, they lived close to nature; and yet in some ways, they were more sophisticated than my mother’s solitary, reclusive folk. The village was a surprisingly elaborate configuration of thatch-roofed wooden buildings, often linked by bridges and walkways. They fished and hunted and foraged, but they grew crops in the jungle highlands, too.
Bao, who knew a great deal more about it than I did, praised their shaman’s knowledge of herb-lore.
“Look, Moirin.” He plucked a leaf from a shrub the shaman Atoc had shown him, rubbing it on his forearm and releasing a sharp, not displeasing, odor. “It helps keep the mosquitoes at bay.”
“I wonder how Eyahue missed that one in all his travels,” I said ruefully. “Mayhap it amused the local folk to see him suffer. Would that we’d known of it sooner.”
Bao shrugged. “Better now than never.”
Mindful of my role as a good spirit bearing gifts, not to mention the additional burden our numbers placed on their stores, I made it a point to contribute every day with a gift of fish or game. Thanks to the narrow hunting trails that laced the usually impenetrable jungle, I was able to procure several more of the tasty ground-fowl over the course of our stay.
Bitterness notwithstanding, the cinchona bark proved an effective cure. Within three days in the village, all the afflicted men’s fevers broke. There was no more incessant shivering, and the whites of Balthasar’s eyes began to clear, their uncanny yellow hue fading.
And for another mercy, we were able to determine that an earlier company of white-faced strangers had passed this way. It seemed they were reckoned bad spirits from the black river, something that remained a mystery. Despite having referenced it upon our initial meeting, Paullu was reluctant to discuss the black river.
“It is bad,” he said stubbornly. “Bad luck!” He shook his head vigorously. “You are good spirits, but you are no match for it. No one is. I should never have spoken of it. You should not go there. No one should go there anymore.”
“Where?” I asked, pointing downriver. “Vilcabamba?”
Paullu flinched. “Yes.”
“Why?”
He would not say. No one would. Only that it was a very bad thing, and to speak of it was to risk summoning it.
“It must have been a flood,” Eyahue determined. “Farther into Tawantinsuyo, in the highlands, the rivers that flow down from the mountains sometimes run black with silt.” He nodded at the narrow river that ran past the village, making its way to the big river. “I bet it flooded the day your prince passed through and turned black, maybe swept away a few people.” He chuckled. “You know how superstitious these jungle folk can be.”
I eyed him, thinking of the racks of skulls in the tzompantli. “I don’t see any signs of a major flood here.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. The jungle grows back fast.”
Whatever the truth, we got no more out of Paullu and the villagers. The mystery of the black river remained unsolved.
By the end of the third day, it was obvious that Balthasar and Jean and the others would be well enough to travel. Septimus Rousse reported that the replacement canoe was ready to launch. Since the beads had proved so popular among the villagers, Eyahue managed to barter several more strands for a renewed supply of sweet potatoes.
“We must have a feast before you go,” Paullu announced. “You are good spirits, but you are weak. You will help our women prepare masato to give you strength.”
I smiled at him. “You are kind.”
Eyahue translated my words, and Paullu’s face took on a serious expression. Reaching for my hand, he pressed it between his callused palms. “You do not know what you face. I tell you once more,