I instinctively flinch as something rushes past my ear, the gust of air rustling my hair. I scream as arrows smack against trunks.
Thwack, thwack, thwack.
Manuel spins, arm already outstretched, reaching for me. The warm clasp of his hand does nothing to settle the frantic beating of my heart. My breath comes out in shuddering gasps. He yanks us behind a tree.
Someone rushes past, spear raised high. A blur of dark hair, toned olive legs encased in leather sandals, and muscled arms gripping a long wooden spear. The man stops just beyond our tree and whirls around.
Manuel shoves me out of the way as the spear comes barreling at us. I land on the ground, full of terror, and suppress a scream. My fingers dig into the dirt, my knees sink into the thick padding of decaying leaves.
The Illari warrior charges with a ferocious war cry.
Manuel steps forward with his machete raised, drawing his attacker away from me. The clash of their weapons rents the air. Birds caw and swoop away from the fight. I scramble onto my feet, back away until I meet the solid strength of the oak tree. I hunch my shoulders, trying to conceal myself under the low-hanging branches.
Manuel fights with every inch of his body. Every jab of his weapon lands—until his opponent bleeds from wounds on his hip and stomach and forearm. Manuel’s feet never stop moving until he disarms the Illari. I look away as he uses the butt of his machete to knock out the Illari fighter.
Someone grabs my arm, screams unintelligible words into my ear. They hold my wrist in a tight snare. A man’s voice speaks Quechua, but I’m too rattled to understand a word of it. My captor drags me away from my hiding spot, and I stumble.
“Let go!” I shriek.
Manuel bends and yanks out a dagger hidden in his boots. He launches the blade and it somersaults through the air. The weapon sinks into the belly of my assailant, and the force catapults him off his feet. I dash to Manuel, my bag smacking against my hip.
He takes my hand. “Run!”
More arrows fly. I let out a small cry. Embedded in the muck is a long wooden arrow with black and white feathers stitched at the end. How many of the Illari are there? I pump my legs, my arms swinging wildly, expecting to feel the sudden smack of an arrow. But it never comes. The Illari’s yelling grows louder, and the sound of rustling leaves rings in my ears. We reach the cliff’s edge and Manuel runs alongside it. He slows to a jog, peering down the other side.
Thunder blasts overhead.
Damn this wet season.
Manuel continues searching for something. He stops at a sparse area as water pours from above, pounding everything in sight with a great watery fist. He wraps both arms around me, tucking my hands against his chest, and walks me backward to the cliff.
“What are you doing?” I cry over the bellowing storm.
“Trust me!”
We’re at the edge, my heels in the air. The water softens the dirt and it gives. “Manuel!”
The jungle floor turns to sludge and we slide down, mud splattering our faces. He tightens his hold around me as we follow the muddy current. Trees zip by on either side, and I scream. This is madness. We’re going to hit one.
We slow toward the bottom and Manuel uses his feet to push us away from a jagged rock at the foot of the hill. Then he yanks me upright, both of us covered in brown muck. The rain is relentless; I can barely see a foot in front of my face. Manuel urges me forward, toward the black river.
Manuel mutters a curse under his breath and half turns, surveying the strong current, the corners of his mouth deepening. “We can’t go back up—they’ve surrounded us.”
He pulls me behind him, facing the hill that envelops the craggy cliff on either side. Trees punctuate the soggy jungle floor, and while I know the Illari are close, I can’t find a single one of them through the pouring rain. But I can’t trust my eyes in the forest. I swallow hard, afraid to stare into that hill, afraid of what I’ll find. Any moment I expect a group of Illari warriors to burst through the tree line. But the seconds stretch into minutes, even as my heart continues to batter my ribs. Only the growing murmur of birds in the distance disrupts the silence.
“What are they doing? Why don’t they attack?” I ask. I don’t know how long we stand there, at the base of the hill, the river at our backs. But no one comes. There’s no more yelling. Only the splattering of heavy rain and the croaking red frogs jumping happily in puddles. Probably poisonous, every single one of them. The birds’ murmuring grows louder and louder.
Manuel narrows his gaze. “Something’s happened.”
“What—”
Loud cawing drowns out my voice. I turn to face the water, and in the distance, I catch sight of a massive billowing cloud. It shifts erratically, the bulk moving up and down. It takes me a moment to understand: I’m not staring at a cloud.
Hundreds of birds soar above the canopy of trees, shrieking as one. The sight is extraordinary and terrifying all at once. I slap my palms against my ears to deafen their panicked call. Manuel lowers his weapon, and his jaw loosens. Without knowing how or why, I know that we’re all gazing at the sight. The Illari have stopped attacking us because of the unusual noise coming from the birds, the bizarre flying.
A second later the sound stops. The birds cease their flapping, and fall to the earth.
Dead.
