The Testament (30 page)

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“You said last night that you are weak and fragile. What does that mean?”

Confession was good for the soul, Sergio had told him during therapy. If she wanted to know, then he would try and shock her with the truth.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he said, almost proudly, the way he’d been trained to admit it during rehab. “I’ve hit the bottom four times in the past ten years, and I came out of detox to make this trip. I cannot say for sure that I will never drink again. I’ve kicked cocaine three times, and I think, though I’m not certain, that I will never touch the stuff again. I filed for bankruptcy four months ago, while in rehab. I’m currently under indictment for income tax evasion, and stand a fifty-fifty chance of going to jail and losing my license to practice law. You know about the two divorces. Both women dislike me, and they’ve poisoned my children. I’ve done a fine job of wrecking my life.”

There was no noticeable pleasure or relief in laying himself bare.

She took it without flinching. “Anything else?” she asked.

“Oh yes. I’ve tried to kill myself at least twice—twice that I can recall. Once last August that landed me in rehab. Then just a few days ago in Corumbá. I think it was Christmas night.”

“In Corumbá?”

“Yes, in my hotel room. I almost drank myself to death with cheap vodka.”

“You poor man.”

“I’m sick, okay. I have a disease. I’ve admitted it many times to many counselors.”

“Have you ever confessed it to God?”

“I’m sure He knows.”

“I’m sure He does. But He won’t help unless you ask. He is
omnipotent, but you have to go to Him, in prayer, in the spirit of forgiveness.”

“What happens?”

“Your sins will be forgiven. Your slate will be wiped clean. Your addictions will be taken away. The Lord will forgive all of your transgressions, and you will become a new believer in Christ.”

“What about the IRS?”

“That won’t go away, but you’ll have the strength to deal with it. Through prayer you can overcome any adversity.”

Nate had been preached at before. He had surrendered to Higher Powers so many times he could almost deliver the sermons. He had been counseled by ministers and therapists and gurus and shrinks of every stripe and variety. Once, during a three-year stretch of sobriety, he actually worked as a counselor for AA, teaching the twelve-point recovery plan to other alcoholics in the basement of an old church in Alexandria. Then he crashed.

Why shouldn’t she try to save him? Wasn’t it her calling in life to convert the lost?

“I don’t know how to pray,” he said.

She took his hand and squeezed it firmly. “Close your eyes, Nate. Repeat after me: Dear God, Forgive me of my sins, and help me to forgive those who have sinned against me.” Nate mumbled the words and squeezed her hand even harder. It sounded vaguely similar to the Lord’s Prayer. “Give me strength to overcome temptations, and addictions, and the trials ahead.” Nate kept mumbling, kept repeating her words, but the little ritual was confusing. Prayer was easy for Rachel because she did so much of it. For him, it was a strange rite.

“Amen,” she said. They opened their eyes but kept their hands together. They listened to the water as it rushed gently over the rocks. There was an odd sensation as his burdens seemed to be lifted; his shoulders felt lighter, his head clearer, his
soul was less troubled. But Nate carried so much baggage he wasn’t certain which loads had been taken away and which remained.

He was still frightened by the real world. It was easy to be brave deep in the Pantanal where the temptations were few, but he knew what awaited him at home.

“Your sins are forgiven, Nate,” she said.

“Which ones? There are so many.”

“All of them.”

“It’s too easy. There’s a lot of wreckage back there.”

“We’ll pray again tonight.”

“It will take more for me than most folks.”

“Trust me, Nate. And trust God. He’s seen worse.”

“I trust you. It’s God who’s got me worried.”

She squeezed his hand even tighter, and for a long still moment they watched the water bubble around them. Finally, she said, “We need to go.” But they didn’t move.

“I’ve been thinking about this burial, this little girl,” Nate said.

“What about it?”

“Will we see her body?”

“I suppose. It will be hard to miss.”

“Then I’d rather not. Jevy and I will go back to the village and wait.”

“Are you sure, Nate? We could talk for hours.”

“I don’t want to see a dead child.”

“Very well. I understand.”

He helped her to her feet, though she certainly didn’t need assistance. They held hands until she reached for her boots. As usual, Lako materialized from nowhere, and they were off, soon lost in the dark woods.

He found Jevy asleep under a tree. They picked their way along the trail, watching for snakes with every step, and slowly returned to the village.

THIRTY-ONE
_____________

T
he Chief wasn’t much of a weatherman. The storm never materialized. It rained twice during the day as Nate and Jevy fought the tedium by napping in their borrowed hammocks. The showers were brief, and after each the sun returned to bake the dampened soil and raise the humidity. Even in the shade, moving only when necessary, the two men sweltered in the heat.

They watched the Indians whenever there was activity, but the work and play ebbed and flowed with the heat. When the sun was out in full force the Ipicas retreated to their huts or to the shade trees behind them. During the brief showers the children played in the rain. When the sun was blocked by clouds, the women ventured out to do their chores and go to the river.

After a week in the Pantanal, Nate was numbed by the listless pace of life. Each day appeared to be an exact copy of the one before. Nothing had changed in centuries.

Rachel returned in mid-afternoon. She and Lako went straight
to the chief and reported on events in the other village. She spoke to Nate and Jevy. She was tired and wanted a quick nap before they discussed business.

What’s another hour to be killed? thought Nate. He watched her walk away. She was lean and tough and could probably run marathons.

“What are you looking at?” Jevy asked with a grin.

“Nothing.”

“How old is she?”

“Forty-two.”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-eight.”

“Has she been married?”

“No.”

“Do you think she’s ever been with a man?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Do you?”

“I really don’t care.”

They fell asleep again, sleeping because there was nothing else to do. In a couple of hours the wrestling would start, then dinner, then darkness. Nate dreamed of the
Santa Loura
, a humble vessel at best, but with each passing hour the boat grew finer. In his dreams it was fast becoming a sleek, elegant yacht.

When the men began to gather to fix their hair and prepare for their games, Nate and Jevy eased away. One of the larger Ipicas yelled at them, and with teeth flashing issued what seemed to be an invitation to come wrestle. Nate scooted away even faster. He had a sudden image of himself getting flung about the village by some squatty little warrior, genitals flying everywhere. Jevy wanted no part of the action either. Rachel rescued them.

She and Nate left the huts and walked toward the river, to their old spot on the narrow bench under the trees. They sat close, their knees touching again.

“You were wise not to go,” she said. Her voice was tired. The nap had failed to revive her.

“Why?”

“Every village has a doctor. He’s called a
shalyun
, and he cooks herbs and roots for his remedies. He also calls forth spirits to help with all sorts of problems.”

“Ah, the old medicine man.”

“Something like that. More of a witch doctor. There are lots of spirits in the Indian world, and the
shalyun
supposedly directs their traffic. Anyway, the
shalyun
are my natural enemies. I am a threat to their religion. They are always on the attack. They persecute the Christian believers. They prey on new converts. They want me to leave and so they are always lobbying the chiefs to run me off. It’s a daily struggle. In the last village down the river, I had a small school where I taught reading and writing. It was for the believers, but it was also open to anyone. A year ago we had a bout of malaria and three people died. The local
shalyun
convinced the chief down there that the disease was a punishment on the village because of my school. It’s now closed.”

Nate just listened. Her courage, already admirable, was reaching new heights. The heat and languid pace of life had lured him into the belief that all was at peace among the Ipicas. No visitor would suspect a war was raging over souls.

“The parents of Ayesh, the girl who died, are Christians, and very strong in their faith. The
shalyun
spread the word that he could’ve saved the girl, but the parents didn’t call on him. They, of course, wanted me to treat her. The
bima
snake has been around forever, and there are home remedies that the
shalyun
brew up. I’ve never seen one work. After she died yesterday, and after I left, the
shalyun
called some spirits forth and held a ceremony in the center of the village. He blamed me for her death. And he blamed God.”

Her words were pouring forth, faster than normal, as if she wanted to hurry and use her English one more time.

“During the burial today, the
shalyun
and a few troublemakers began chanting and dancing nearby. The poor parents were completely overcome with grief and humiliation. I couldn’t finish the service.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, and she bit her lip.

Nate patted her arm. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

Crying was not something she could do in front of the Indians. She had to be strong and stoic, filled with faith and courage under all circumstances. But she could cry with Nate, and he would understand. He expected it.

She wiped her eyes and slowly collected her emotions. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” Nate said again, anxious to help. The tears of a woman melted the facade of coolness, whether in a bar or sitting by a river.

There was hollering in the village. The wrestling had started. Nate had a quick thought about Jevy. Surely he had not succumbed to the temptation of playing with the boys.

“I think you should go now,” she said abruptly, breaking the silence. Her emotions were under control, her voice was back to normal.

“What?”

“Yes, now. Very soon.”

“I’m anxious to go, but what’s the rush? It’ll be dark in three hours.”

“There is reason to worry.”

“I’m listening.”

“I think I saw a case of malaria in the other village today. Mosquitoes carry it and it spreads quickly.”

Nate began scratching and was ready to hop in the boat, then he remembered his pills. “I’m safe. I’m taking chlorosomething.”

“Chloroquine?”

“That’s it.”

“When did you start?”

“Two days before I left the States.”

“Where are the pills now?”

“I left them on the big boat.”

She shook her head with disapproval. “You’re supposed to take them before, during, and after the trip.” Her tone was medically authoritative, as if death could be imminent.

“And what about Jevy?” she asked. “Is he taking the pills?”

“He was in the army. I’m sure he’s okay.”

“I’m not going to argue, Nate. I’ve already spoken to the chief. He sent two fishermen out this morning before sunrise. The flooded waters are tricky for the first two hours, then the navigation becomes familiar. He will provide three guides in two canoes, and I’ll send Lako to handle the language. Once you’re on the Xeco River, it’s a straight shot to the Paraguay.”

“How far away is that?”

“The Xeco is about four hours away. The Paraguay, six. And you’re going with the current.”

“Whatever. You seem to have everything planned.”

“Trust me, Nate. I’ve had malaria twice, and you don’t want it. The second time almost killed me.”

It had never occurred to Nate that she might die. The Phelan estate would be chaotic enough with Rachel hiding in the jungles and rejecting the paperwork. If she died, it would take years to settle things.

And he admired her greatly. She was everything he wasn’t—strong and brave, grounded in faith, happy with simplicity, certain of her place in the world and the hereafter. “Don’t die, Rachel,” he said.

“Death is not something I fear. For a Christian, death is a reward. But do pray for me, Nate.”

“I’m going to pray more, I promise.”

“You’re a good man. You have a good heart and a good mind. You just need some help.”

“I know. I’m not very strong.”

He had the papers in a folded envelope in his pocket. He pulled them out. “Can we at least discuss these?”

“Yes, but only as a favor to you. I figure you’ve come this far, the least I can do is have our little law chat.”

“Thank you.” He handed her the first sheet, a copy of Troy’s one-page will. She read it slowly, struggling with parts of the handwriting. When she finished, she asked, “Is this a legal will?”

“So far.”

“But it’s so primitive.”

“Handwritten wills are valid. Sorry, it’s the law.”

She read it again. Nate noticed the shadows falling along the tree line. He had become afraid of the dark, both on land and on water. He was anxious to leave.

“Troy didn’t care for his other offspring, did he?” she said with amusement.

“You wouldn’t either. But then I doubt if he was much of a father.”

“I remember the day my mother told me about him. I was seventeen. It was late summer. My father had just died of cancer, and life was pretty bleak. Troy had somehow found me and was bugging my mother to visit. She told me the truth about my biological parents, and it meant nothing to me. I didn’t care about those people. I’d never known them, and had no desire to meet them. I found out later that my birth mother killed herself. How do you figure that, Nate? Both of my real parents killed themselves. Is there something in my genes?”