Memories of the coppery scent of the blood as it drips down my back surrounded by a people lost to time, unspoiled by exploration, who welcome me through the centuries. Their leader takes great pride in bestowing their ancient rites of scarification onto their god. I’m no god, I started as a man, but they cannot understand any other explanation of my presence and power.
The memories swirl and build upon each other, edges blurred by massive doses of the hallucinogenic brew they mixed with their offering of blood to me, the only way to withstand the pain of their rituals, even for one like me. I reach back and drift my fingertips over the upper part of my back, the bumps and ridges comforting in their familiarity.
Pulling my mind back to the present, I walk to the only thing in this room, a fridge, and pull a bag from the large supply within. I rip the top open with my teeth and drink down the contents. Still reeling from my encounter, I down two more bags in quick succession, but they do nothing to fill the hollowness in my soul.
Feeling empty, I slide down the wall and sit above the dirt on the floor, elbows on my knees, face clutched in my hands. I let the outside world fall away and retreat into my mind, reaching back through the ages, sifting for clues through memories like a slideshow carousel.
Searching for a path forward. Searching for a way to save us both.
Sweat trickles down my back, soaking the khaki cotton of my life’s uniform. I take my hat off, fanning my face, the pitiful breeze doing nothing to offset the jungle’s heat. Curls have escaped my tight braids to stick to my forehead and neck, adding to the tickle of dripping sweat and insect wings.
I wish for the millionth time I could dress like our guides in barely there clothing instead of being swathed head to toe in the most boring color on the planet and heavy boots.At least it keeps the bulk of the mosquitoes off,I think as I slap a juicy one that came in for a bite on the back of my neck.
I know I should have gone back to camp with the rest of the group, but I am positive the rare orchid I am hunting is close to this small creek. If I can just go a little further, I know in my gut I will find it. And my gut is always right about plants.
I hack at the foliage, pushing forward, following the creek. The sweat is flowing freely down now, no longer a trickle. I pause just for a moment, draining the last of the water from my canteen, the faint metallic taste wrinkling my nose.
The heat is oppressive. Coupled with the humidity, the air feels like a wet sponge. I mop my face with my wet handkerchief, achieving no more than just rearranging the grime on my face. Soldiering on, I follow the curve of the stream, my machete neatly carving out a path in front of me.
The rhythm of slash, step, slash, step allows my mind to wander. Only one more week to find my precious flower before we go home. My parents are wrapping up their excavation, which means we will all be packing up soon.
I dread our return, having no interest in dresses, debutante balls, or marriage. I want to be left in my trousers to explore the jungle, free to wear my hair in braids and stay up late, stealing sips of my father’s bourbon by the fire and a puff of his cigar. I will not be caged, no more how golden the bars.
Oh, how I wish I were a man and could remain here at camp with my own crew. As progressive as my parents are, and as much as they encourage me in my study of botany, a lonesome woman simply cannot be left behind with nothing but a jungle crew.
As I round the bend, I am brought up short by the sight of two Indigenous men. I must have walked further than I thought; there are no local people here that we were told of.
My eyes widen as one aims his spear at me. They gesture at my large machete, and I place it on the ground, keeping my eyes on them. I see the second man lift his blowgun and then the darkness claims me.
* * *
My head is swimminglike a carousel and my mouth reminds me of our Egyptian dig two summers ago. While I fight to open my eyes, someone holds a cup to my lips. I greedily take a mouthful and immediately struggle to spit out the bitter brew when a hand clamps over my mouth and nose, leaving me no choice but to swallow.
I force my eyes open and see I am in a low building, next to a fire surrounded by women. I fight down panic as understanding dawns on me–not only am I not back at the camp, but my family has no idea as to my whereabouts.
For the first time in my years traipsing the globe with my parents, I am afraid. Truly and unquestionably frightened. Damn my distracted independence.
I begin to feel the liquid I was forced to drink seep through my system. My last coherent thought is it must be some sort of hallucinogenic, given the way the firelight starts to dance hypnotically and my fear bleeds away.
I allow the women to undress me and fit me with a rough skirt, leaving my breasts exposed. They adorn me with some type of paint, from my face to my toes, swirling patterns of dots and lines.
Some deep thought tries to surface about how strange it is to feel so many hands slipping over my body and breasts, but all I can focus on are the designs pulsing with my heartbeat as if fueled by magic. The cool mud worked into my hair feels heavenly after the heat of the day.
The entire mass is piled on top of my head, and I shiver in the cooling night air, goosebumps breaking out across my flesh. One of the women shows me my reflection in a broken shard of mirror, one section of my body at a time.
I am shocked at my exotic appearance, the paint and patterns on my face highlighting my mismatched eyes, the splash of green vibrant in the amber.
She tilts the mirror, and my warped mind cannot process what appears to be crude fangs and dripping blood painted around my mouth. A line from one of my childhood favorites drifts into my thoughts—curiouser and curiouser.
They offer me a cool sweet drink and I accept, rational thought gone. Could be more drugs, but at this point, I don't care. At least it tastes better. One of the women takes me by the arm and leads to the main fire, where some type of ceremony has started.
I try to capture the details and store them in my mind to tell my parents, as I’m sure no one has yet discovered this group of people. I stupidly think,my parents would be fascinated.
The people are all small, shorter even than my five foot three frame, but most startling are their feet, wide and spread. I try to puzzle out why this adaptation would happen, but my thoughts are too busy swirling up into the sky with the sparks from the fire. The details I try to recall from even a minute ago simply slip away, up, up, up to the stars.
Arms outstretched, I spin in a circle and laugh wildly, imagining myself a spark of flame dancing in the wind. I am led away from my impromptu dance next to the fire to a seat and watch in rapt fascination at the ceremonial dance playing out before me.
It appears to be a pantomime of my capture and possibly my sacrifice. Fascinating.
