Everyone thinks I’ll eventually disappear. Slink off into a quiet existence, defined by my inability to lead. My weakness. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to give up.
I’ve come so far.
“I must stay,” I say in Quechua again. “Will you escort my companion to the jungle border? His safety is important to me.”
Manuel looks at me with impotent fury. “Yourcompanionwon’t be leaving.”
“There is one more test,” the woman says. “If you live, I will take you to Paititi myself. Will you follow me?”
“One more test?”he asks, realization dawning. “The caimán? The butterflies? Were those tests?”
“Decide,” she says, her gaze flickering to mine, confirming our suspicion.
I inhale. “We’ll follow you.”
She nods and then makes a loud clicking noise. The jaguar instantly becomes alert and follows her away from the cave. I hoist my pack and trudge after her, one eye on our guide and the other on Manuel. His face is set, but in the depths of his eyes there’s something else. Something I don’t expect at all.
Fear.
The woman doesn’t speak, or encourage conversation. She doesn’t hack her way through the tangled brush, but somehow finds a path, bending and curving her body around thickets of trees and clumps of jagged-edged leaves. Several times she glances over in my direction, often after I’ve made a noise—not eventhatloud of a sound—and she frowns, as if I’m walking and breathing wrong. It seems there’s only one way to walk properly in the jungle. Whatever it is, Manuel has mastered it. He moves quietly, his machete sheathed, mimicking her movements. A born predator, like the jaguar following on the heels of the Illari tracker.
She never looks at Manuel in disapproval.
We trek deeper into the unknown, the surroundings changing gradually. Plants become brighter and fuller. Trees loom larger, and the vines curling around branches become longer and thicker. I don’t recognize any of the fruit hanging above our heads, or even the scent of the forest. The damp smell of decay turns sweeter, less rotting, and my nose doesn’t wrinkle as much. The sounds are the same, however: croaks, hoots, grunts, and buzzing. There is a constant cacophony of leaves rustling and water rushing, glazing rocks and splashing the muddy banks. And always, the inescapable heat. Sweat clings to my skin, coating every inch in a wet, sticky sheen. Mosquitos lap up my blood—tiny monsters, all of them.
But the jungle never fails to be wondrous as much as it is dangerous. Even in the gloom, howling monkeys traverse overhead, sloths with their young slowly reach for the next branch, and everywhere are the jewel-tone birds, fluttering and singing. I want to hate this place as much as it hates me.
But I don’t.
There’s magic in every inch; the forest creates a powerful enchantment—though I can’t see it. I can only feel the subtle currents of Pachamama. This is her domain; she is the giver of life and beauty, nurturing every beast and insect.
The woman leads us to a clearing next to a pond with a small island in the center. Overhead, the stars have come out and Luna shines brightly from her throne in the sky. Her rays glide over my skin, and I shiver from the cool embrace.
“We’ll rest here,” the Illari tracker says.
“¿Cómo te llamas?” I ask.
She ignores my question. My cheeks flush as we head onto the sandy bank, imperfect, with numerous jagged rocks marring its surface. Manuel cuts down bamboo, and I look for firewood, bringing back whatever I can find that isn’t sopping wet. She takes the bundle from my arms and lays it above a stretch of broad leaves. Using two rocks, she somehow coaxes a small fire to life. Manuel hands out bamboo cups filled with fresh water, and then ventures to the lake, once again with a long bamboo stalk, one end carved into sharp prongs. I settle onto the sand near the fire, even though it’s blazing hot, and sip from my cup. The jaguar curls next to the tracker, its gaze on my every movement.
Manuel returns carrying a long catfish writhing in his arms. While he prepares the fish for cooking, I study our guide as she rests by the fire, her big jungle cat pressed against her legs. She stares at Manuel, a slight furrow between her black brows, as if she can’t quite figure out what he’s doing here. He’s not a member of a tribe, his weapon is Illustrian, but he also carries a slingshot, which he’s never had to use. The jungle seems to accept him, and in return he respects its majesty. He’s a blend of the land and people who have shaped him these last three years.
“How far is the next test?” I ask.
No reply to this. Manuel seems to know to keep silent, but I’m not built that way. When I’m nervous, I chatter. But even her foreboding expression deters me from asking another question.
I catalog her features. Study every line of her compact frame. The tracker’s tunic is beautiful, the hem finished with a black-and-white fringe that grazes her skin. On her feet are soft leather sandals, and her trousers look lightweight and of good quality. The circlet of gold on her brow intrigues me. Is she someone important in the lost city?
The silence stretches. I can’t take it. “Is Paititi far from here?”
Her gaze flickers to mine. “You may not see it at all. No sense in talking of my home village.”
“I’m only attempting polite conversation.”
“You make too much noise,” she says, and then tilts her head back to gaze up at Luna.
I try not to be hurt by her words and her tone, even as they scratch my skin. When she reaches for her small pack, I expect her to pull out a weapon; instead a small canvas sack appears in her fingers. She reaches inside and grabs a glittering dust from within.
Moondust.
