Entangled (63 page)

It was around then, said black-haired, dark-eyed Aranchi, that they discovered what the separate women-only pen was for. There were two hundred of them in there and they all began to scream when a dozen blood-spattered Illimani braves suddenly barged through the gate, grabbed two women at random by the hair and dragged them outside. A terrible spectacle unfolded as they were punched and kicked to the ground, raped and then chopped to pieces with axes.

Reeking of Storl, a different group of men now appeared and two more women were dragged out of the guarded gate. Panic began to spread.

The treatment of the remaining men and older women from the first pen was even worse. On the shouted directions of a monstrous warrior in a bear-skull headdress, they’d been separated into different groups, just three or five in some, as many as fifty in others, and subjected to all the hideous tortures from the Illimani’s gruesome repertoire that Ria was already familiar with – mass burnings at the stake, impalements, flaying alive, nailing to the few remaining large trees around the camp and so on and so forth. It was all done very slowly, one or two groups at a time, while the others, some voiding their bowels in terror, were forced to look on. It was obvious the Illimani took pleasure in inflicting pain and in magnifying the dread of those who were about to die.

And yet the children under twelve, and the babes in arms with their mothers, were still left unmolested.

Another group of drunken fighters burst through the gate of the women’s pen causing a wild fear-driven stampede. A section of the thorn fence was trampled down in the confusion and Moiraig, Aranchi and Noro were amongst a very few who escaped, running for their lives and eventually finding their way to this valley.

Aranchi told Ria of their guilt at escaping. ‘But what else could we do?’ she sobbed. ‘What else could we do?’

‘We should have stayed for them,’ lamented Moiraig, who had not stopped weeping. She was chubby and earnest, with plain, simple features. ‘It was wrong to run.’

‘No,’ Ria said, putting a firm hand on her arm. ‘You would have gained nothing by staying and dying. At least you’re alive now and I’m pretty certain your kids are still alive too.’

Moiraig looked at her with sudden innocent hope: ‘Alive?’

‘Alive?’ echoed Noro. Her curly chestnut hair hung down over her shoulders, framing an anxious, pretty face.

‘Yes, alive.’ Ria lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that took in all three of them: ‘And I mean to get them back for you.’

‘Thank goodness,’ said Leoncio. ‘We’ve arrived.’

As he spoke, one of the Indians, a short, stocky, muscular man with a very flat face and straight black shoulder-length hair, lowered his blowpipe and uttered a few words in a strange language punctuated by clicks of the tongue – not Shipibo, Leoni thought, although she couldn’t be sure. The man’s fierce features, painted red and black with intricate geometrical designs, broke into a broad smile that seemed to signify amazement, delight and welcome all at the same time. He rushed forward and he and Leoncio embraced, both of them speaking in the curious click language. The other Indians had also lowered their blowpipes and now crowded close. Their bodies, all painted with the same fine red and black lines, had a curious buttery, smoky odour, which Leoni found extremely alien, but suspicion no longer glittered in their eyes and their initial hostility had vanished.

‘Everything is good,’ Leoncio announced. ‘We’re amongst the Tarahanua. The village is near.’

Last night, before sleeping, as they sat under their improvised rain-shelters, Leoncio had spoken a little about the Tarahanua, the small tribe whose sanctuary they sought. Though not completely untouched by the forces of modernisation, they had defended their independence and kept to their traditional ways, migrating deeper into the jungle whenever Christian missionaries or the Peruvian state became too bothersome. They grew beans, a little corn, manioc, plantains and bananas, fished the shallow streams that ran through their land (for they had deliberately kept their distance from any large river), and hunted tapir, peccary, deer, capybara, armadillos, monkeys and wild birds for their meat. They also hunted jaguar and ocelot, trading the skins through a chain of intermediaries for mirrors, pots, kerosene, cloth, soap, and the occasional shotgun, but otherwise had no contact at all with the outside
world. ‘Unless
I
am to be counted as the outside world,’ Leoncio had added, ‘because I’ve been visiting them for years. They have two shamans, both powerful, and they’ve taught me many things.’

He explained that the Tarahanua brewed a particularly potent form of Ayahuasca with an admixture of datura, a different visionary plant that sometimes had the effect of extending the trip for up to twelve hours. His own deepest trances had come in sessions with the Tarahanua and he was convinced that with the help of their shamans Leoni would be able to complete the work she’d been called to. ‘You do realise you’ve been called, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Called to what?’

With the rain pattering down on their flimsy palm-leaf shelters and the dark jungle pressing close all around, Leoncio had paused, seeming to gather his thoughts: ‘Ayahuasca is a grace Our Lady of the Forest has bestowed on all mankind,’ he said at last, ‘a gateway to other worlds and times. Yet not one in a million of us – perhaps not even one in ten million – can make proper use of this amazing gift. Many are so frightened, so confused, so shattered by disconnection from the physical world, they gain nothing at all from the experience. Others have already dropped such strong anchors into material reality they never disconnect at all. Many do make the “transit”, as I’ve heard you call it, and benefit greatly from access to other realms, but remain passive as the experience unfolds, as though it is something being done to them, not a process they can influence. Only a very few – and you are amongst them – can find their feet on the other side, remain functional, take control of situations that confront them, overcome the dangers that await them there, even obtain mastery over the spirits themselves. They’re the ones who can become shamans. Some become
great
shamans …’

‘And – sorry, but let me just get this clear – you’re saying I’m one of those?’

‘Much training and preparation will be required, but, yes, I’m saying you were
born
to walk in other worlds. You have amazing abilities. If you lacked them Our Lady of the Forest would not have selected you for this task.’

Several knee-pounding miles up and down an endless series of forested hummocks and hollows still remained before they reached the Tarahanua
village. As they walked, Leoncio brought up the subject of Leoni’s last Ayahuasca vision which he had been forced to terminate with an antidote when his homestead was attacked.

On their trek through the jungle Leoni had already shared everything she could recall about the vision but Leoncio was now more interested in the next move. ‘From how you’ve described it,’ he said, ‘it seems Ria is in immediate danger from these Illimani …’

‘Yes, immediate …’

‘But the excellent thing is you are somehow able to communicate with her – that’s difficult you know. I don’t think you realise how difficult it is – not only to talk to matter from spirit but also to do it across the time barrier.’

‘The Blue Angel – Our Lady of the Forest – told me this kind of stuff happens because I’m entangled with Ria.’

‘In which case,’ said Leoncio, ‘I suggest you look out for other phenomena of your entanglement. They won’t be confined to communication …’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Other powers you activate in each other. This will all be part of the web Our Lady of the Forest is weaving by which Sulpa and Jack can be defeated.’

The village of the Tarahanua was called Apo – a name that meant simply ‘home’. It was set in a clearing in the heart of the jungle, a cluster of a dozen tall beehive-shaped huts with walls and roofs of banana-leaf thatch, surrounded by vegetable gardens. It would be mostly sheltered from aerial view by the overarching canopy, Leoni realised. A stream flowed nearby, noisy bright-eyed young children charged around, and one by one adults of all ages began to trickle out of the communal huts and stare first at the
gringos
and then, with joyful shouts of greeting, at Leoncio. So many of these naked, beaming folk came up to him to embrace him and shake his hand that it was obvious he was loved here.

Baido, the hunter whose band had found them, led them directly towards the largest beehive hut. Standing more than thirty feet tall, and perhaps as many across, the smooth convex curve of the continuous roof and walls was broken at the front of the building by a low doorway through which they now stooped to enter.

Inside it was dark and smoky, with two small cooking fires burning right and left, but there was a sense of lofty spaciousness in the gloom above. Several women, some with small children clustered round them, were at work preparing food. Hammocks hung from posts here and there, and at the back of the room an elderly man sat cross-legged on the earth floor, his face lit by a beam of light lancing through a smoke hole in the thatch.

Baido directed them towards this figure and, as they approached, Leoni saw he was blind, with milky cataracts over both eyes, and a lined and wizened face that seemed a million years old. Leoncio stooped and embraced him. A long dialogue of clicks followed, then Leoncio beckoned Leoni forward. ‘This is Buraya,’ he said, ‘chief of the Tarahanua. I’m going to introduce you now.’ More clicks. Finally, Leoncio asked Leoni to shake hands with Buraya who retained her hand in his own – she was surprised how firm his grip was – and made what seemed to be a short statement to her in his language, his voice rustling like dry leaves.

Then Matt was introduced and seconds later Baido ushered them all outside where a huge wooden bowl of a strange but somehow delicious and sustaining fermented banana drink was served to them.

‘What did he say?’ Leoni asked between gulps from the bowl.

‘It’s good news,’ said Leoncio. ‘He will summon his shamans and you will drink Ayahuasca tonight …’

‘But he said something to me directly, right at the end. What was it?’

‘I told him about our escape. He said that if this demon you’re fighting has gone to so much trouble to stop you then you must be very dangerous to him.’

They gathered at midnight in the same smoky communal
maloca
where Buraya had welcomed them. Tall thin Ruapa and short stocky Baiyakondi, the two ancient shamans of the Tarahanua, purified the space with the smoke from huge cigars of wild tobacco and sang
icaros
all around the room before the ceremony began. ‘I’ve told them about Jack,’ Leoncio whispered, ‘and they’ve taken special precautions. He won’t be able to get his eye on us here.’

Little by little, to Leoni’s surprise the
maloca
filled up with what appeared to be the entire population of the village – more than a hundred
men, women and children, all crammed in together cross-legged on the floor. She was even more amazed to learn that all of them –
all of them,
including the children – were about to drink Ayahuasca. ‘These group ceremonies where the whole tribe builds the energy have a magical effect,’ Leoncio explained. ‘Everyone here will play their part in helping your quest to succeed.’

For some minutes Leoncio and Baiyakondi whispered in the click language before the stocky Tarahanua shaman used a wooden ladle to scoop a huge dose of Ayahuasca from a battered cooking pot and decant it into the grubby gourd that was to serve as Leoni’s cup.

She held the gourd between her hands, looking down into the oily red-black sheen of the potion, her stomach already heaving and her eyes watering as the smell hit her. When the time came to drink, however – and the whole community drank at the same moment on Ruapa’s signal – Leoni gulped down every drop, so eager was she to return to Ria’s side.

The awful taste lingered, the liquid, thick as treacle, stuck to her teeth and lined her tongue and palate even as the mass of it burned its way down to her stomach. She suffered a moment of terrible nausea but this settled, and when she took a little water to rinse her mouth she didn’t spit it out but swallowed it to ensure that none of the Ayahuasca went to waste.

In the lull before the storm hit her, Leoni summoned Ria’s face to mind.