Once back inside the motor home, Ignatious brought out one of two animal skin pouches. This contained sixteen well preserved bunches of humming bird feathers, all the same iridescent colours. The other pouch held a total of twenty. Ignatious never tired of looking at the collection; the mysteries of this particular bird’s flight patterns, studied when in the Amazon, left him in excited awe.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Apart from the morning’s activity, Ignatious had spent most of the time familiarising himself with his surroundings, enjoying the summers day. He had eaten sparsely, his appetite diminished due to the heat. Now it was night and he had gone to bed, slipping easily into a gradually deepening sleep.
As in a serial, dreams, if dreams be the right description, begin where they leave off, each episode a continuation of the last.
In flashes of wakefulness, Saviour opened his eyes and took in the scene around him. The storm was still raging; the howling wind, the slanting rain and the roaring thunder ferociously attacking his weakened and damaged body as he lay helplessly entangled in the thick tree branches that offered him support. He shook with fear as a blinding flash of lightning seared through a thick branch, not six feet from his position, the wind hurling it into the air above to be swallowed into it’s insatiable belly. He managed a fearful look to his right and saw the figure of Sister Vasquez, her clothing flapping like a hummingbird’s wings, suffering the storm as he was. He noticed a deliberate movement from her; a quick shift of position, a huddle deeper into the protective foliage — she was alive! Try as he may, Saviour could not see his other comrades, Fathers Christian and Ottomier. Suddenly the screeching hurricane reached a crescendo; Saviour’s head began to swim, his eyes blurred and he fell into unconsciousness.
The jungle tribe that found the strangely attired people had a history going back many centuries. They had not developed as in the sense of the western world but their particular skills were finely honed. The men and boys were highly skilled hunters and clever at producing the necessary items of their existence, whilst the females of the tribe worked hard as farmers of the lands, cooks, nurses, weavers and, of course, mothers.
They set about releasing the victims from their entangled prisons, checking that they were still alive before carrying them not too carefully back to the village on contraptions made from stout poles and animal hides, formed into elongated stretchers. Two men rested the front poles on their shoulders and, maintaining a strong grip, dragged the injured people at quick speed behind them.
Saviour awoke several times during his fever but was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. His senses told him that he was being cared for, there being a feeling of comfort and the occasional suspicion of a young, deep-coffee-coloured face swimming in and out of his vision. Then the demons arrived again to extract their fun at his expense. He screamed in terror but it was not heard by the carers, the only sign being the renewal of the violent shuddering, coupled with unbelievable perspiring, as the fever bit forcefully.
Fifteen days passed before Saviour finally awoke. Although his head ached, he was in command of his faculties once more. He lay still for a short while, gathering his wits, appreciating the pleasant smell of something burning — like smouldering cork. There was also the mouth-watering aroma of food being cooked; fish and beef it seemed. He found that he was lying on a comfortable bed made up of some kind of vegetation, covered over by a smooth cotton blanket with a sheet of the same material draped loosely over him. The air was warm and the summery sounds of carried voices and buzzing insects came to his ears. Looking around, he found that he was in some kind of primitive hut, the only wall decorations being various types of animal heads and two or three brightly coloured blankets placed in haphazard fashion.
Forcing himself to move from his comfort, Ignatious rose unsteadily to his feet. Leaning against a wall for support, he rested for a couple of minutes before venturing forward to the entrance — the single opening in the hut. He found he was walking with half-closed eyes and he shook his head to clear the somewhat self-pitying feelings in which he was ensconced.
His heart leapt alarmingly as he left the building and he had to grab at one of the thick bamboo poles forming a part of the structure’s entrance to save himself from crashing twenty feet or so to the ground below. The huts had been built on stilts! Quickly scrambling back inside, Ignatious knelt, looking forward out of the building at the camp below.
There appeared to be no men around, just a few young boys. However, there were many women and girls to be seen, all busy at some task or other. Like ants, they seemed to be scurrying around, to and fro, bringing, fetching, and carrying. It was obvious the main job was cooking; hence the delectable aromas abounding.
Looking to the Sun, Ignatious estimated the time to be around eleven in the morning. He was feeling ravenous. Clearing his head once more, he gingerly sought out the flimsy looking ladder with his foot and descended the almost vertical piece, holding tightly, body flat to the rungs, taking one slow step before the other. He began to sweat. The view from the top would have been quite magnificent had he been able to enjoy it, but his main concentration was surviving the journey to the ground, some thirty feet below.
At last, he arrived on terra firma, his naked feet appreciating the warm earth. He turned to face the camp and was surprised to see that all the activity had ceased and all were staring intently at him. Standing at the foot of the ladder, he leaned against it, not certain of what to do next.
To break the deathly silence, he waved an arm lamely, smiling at the onlookers. Nothing. He began to move slowly towards the group feeling foolish and embarrassed. For some unknown reason, and quite unnecessarily, he limped.
The group finally moved — backwards and slowly, taking an equal pace to Saviour’s, their eyes never leaving him. He began then to worry about his comrades. If these people were so suspicious of him, it lent thought to the fact that the others had not survived or, dread the very thought, had been murdered!
In the midst of this impasse, a strong female voice came from behind the huts at the side of the first group. It spoke in Portuguese. Ignatious had a smattering of knowledge in the language and was able to get the gist of it.
“Stay where you are, man,” it said, as the bearer broke from the group. She was clearly one of the tribe, though taller than the others, none of whom exceeded five feet in height. The speaker was around five-feet seven inches. Unlike most of the rest, she was clothed in a loosely — fitting sarong, they being naked from the waist up, with the younger ones completely unclothed. It was only then that Ignatious realised that he, too, was naked! In his confused state, he had completely forgotten to search for clothing.
“My friends are afraid of you,” she called out. “They only saw you as a sick man, being brought into our village. You now look recovered. Let me come to you first and we can meet. After that, it will be all right.”
Ignatious stood where he was and waited as the woman came to him. She was no doubt beautiful to the tribe but, to his Western eyes, she was unattractive, having a rather pugilistic face. However, the rich, long black hair that cascaded down her back was a thing of beauty and, close up, Ignatious was drawn to the beauty of the large, dark and expressive eyes.