Those didn’t come back. Their bodies, bloated and nibbled at by piranhas, would sometimes turn up on a beach or dangling in shreds from the roots of a tree by the riverbank. Appearances don’t deceive. The ones who went like that, went. Did the seripigaris know that then? Who knows whether wisdom had yet appeared? Once birds and beasts have eaten its shell, the soul can’t find its way back, it seems. It stays lost in some world, it becomes a little kamagarini devil and goes down to join those below, or it becomes a little saankarite god and goes up to the worlds above. That’s why, before, they mistrusted rivers, lakes, and even side channels that weren’t very deep. That’s why they plied the rivers only when all the other ways were closed. Because they didn’t want to die, perhaps. Water is treacherous, it’s said. To go away by drowning is to die, no doubt.
That, anyway, is what I have learned.
The bottom of the river in the Gran Pongo is strewn with our corpses. There must be a very great number of them. There they were breathed forth and there they no doubt return to die. That’s where they must be, far below the surface, hearing the water moan as it crashes against the stones and dashes against the sharp rocks. That’s why there are no turtles above the Pongo, in the mountain reaches. They’re good swimmers, but even so, not one of them has ever been able to swim against the current in those waters. The ones that tried drowned. They, too, must be at the bottom now, hearing the shudders of the world above. That’s where we Machiguengas started and that’s where we’ll end, it seems. In the Gran Pongo.
Others went fighting. There are many ways of fighting. Back then, the men who walk had paused to get back their strength. They were so tired they could hardly talk. They halted in a stretch of forest that seemed safe. They cleared it, built their houses, wove their roofs. It was a place high up and they thought the waters sent by Kientibakori to drown them wouldn’t reach there, or if they did, they would see them in time and could escape. After clearing and burning off the forest, they planted cassava and sowed maize and plantain. There was wild cotton to weave cushmas, and tobacco plants, whose smell kept vipers away. Macaws came and chattered on their shoulders. Jaguar cubs sucked at the women’s nipples. Women about to give birth went deep into the forest, bathed, and came back with infants who moved their hands and feet, whimpering, pleased by the gentle warmth of the sun. There were no Mashcos. Kashiri, the moon, caused no evils yet; he’d already been on earth, teaching people how to grow cassava. He had sown his bad seed, perhaps. People did not know. Everything seemed to be going well.
Then one night a vampire bit Tasurinchi as he slept. It sank its two fangs into his face, and even though he hit it with his fists, it wouldn’t let him go. He had to tear it to pieces, smearing himself with its soft bones, sticky as shit. “It’s a warning,” said Tasurinchi. What did the warning say? Nobody understood it. Wisdom was lost or hadn’t yet come. They didn’t go away. They stayed there, frightened, waiting. Before the cassava and the maize grew, before the plantains bore fruit, the Mashcos came. They didn’t sense their coming, they didn’t hear the music of their monkey-skin drums. Suddenly arrows, darts, stones rained down on them. Suddenly great flames burned their houses down. Before they could defend themselves, the enemy had cut off many heads and carried off many women. And taken away all the baskets of salt they had gone to the Cerro to fill. Did the ones who went like that come back, or did they die? Who knows? They died perhaps. Their spirit went to give more fury and more strength to their despoilers, perhaps. Or are they still there, wandering helplessly about the forest?
Who knows how many have not returned? Those who were killed by arrows or stones, or fell trembling from poisoned darts and bad trances. Each time the Mashcos attacked and he saw the people set upon, Tasurinchi pointed to the sky, saying: “The sun is falling. We have done something wrong. We have become corrupt, staying so long in one place. Custom must be respected. We must become pure again. Let us keep walking.” And wisdom returned, happily, just as they were about to disappear. So then they forgot about the fields they had sown, their houses, everything that could not be carried in their pouches. They put on their necklaces and their headdresses, burned the rest, and beating their drums, dancing and singing, they started walking. Once again, once again. Then the sun stopped falling down the sky worlds. Suddenly they felt it waking up, in a fury. “Now it’s heating the world again,” they said. “We’re alive,” they said. And they went on walking.
So, that time, the men who walk reached the Cerro. There it was. So high, so pure, rising, rising up to Menkoripatsa, the white world of the clouds. Five rivers flowed, dancing amid the salty stones. Around the Cerro were little groves of yellow ichu, with doves and partridges, with playful mice and ants that tasted of honey. The rocks were salt, the ground was salt, the river bottoms, too, were salt. The men of earth filled their baskets and their pouches and their nets, at peace, knowing that the salt would never run out. They were happy, it seems. They went away, they came back, and the salt had increased. There was always salt for those who went up to collect it. Many went up, Ashaninkas, Amueshas, Piros, Yaminahuas. The Mashcos went up. Everyone knew the Cerro. We arrived and the enemy was there. We didn’t fight each other. There were no wars or massacres, only respect, they say. That, anyway, is what I have learned. And maybe it’s true. Just as with the salt licks, just as with the water holes. In the hidden places in the forest where the earth is salty and they go to lick it, do animals fight each other? Who has ever seen a sajino attack a majaz, or a capybara bite a shimbillo at a salt lick? They don’t do anything to each other. There they meet and there they stay, each one in its place, quietly licking the salt or the water from the ground until they’ve had their fill. Is it not a good thing to find a salt lick or a water hole? How easy it is to hunt the animals then. There they are, at peace, trustful, licking. They pay no attention to the stones; they don’t flee when the arrows whistle. They fall easily. The Cerro was the salt lick of men, their great water hole. Perhaps it had its own magic. The Ashaninkas say that it is sacred, that spirits speak within the stone. That may be so; perhaps they talk together. They arrived with baskets and pouches and nobody hunted them. They looked at each other, that was all. There was salt and respect for everyone.
After, it was no longer possible to go up to the Cerro. After, they had to do without salt. After, anyone who went up there was hunted. Bound fast and carried off to the camps. That was the tree-bleeding. Get on with it, damn you! After, the earth was filled with Viracochas tracking down men. They carried them off to bleed trees and tote rubber. Get a move on, damn you! The camps were worse than the darkness and the rains, it seems; worse than the time of evil and the Mashcos. We were very lucky. Aren’t we still walking? The Viracochas were cunning, they say. They knew people would go up with their baskets and nets to collect salt on the Cerro. They lay in wait for them with traps and shot at them. They carried off the ones who fell. Ashaninkas, Piros, Amahuacas, Yaminahuas, Mashcos. They had no preferences. Anyone who fell, if they had hands to bleed the tree, fingers to tear it open, stick a tin in it, and collect its milk, shoulders to carry, and feet to run with the balls of gum elastic to the camp. A few escaped perhaps. Very few, they say. It wasn’t easy. You had to do more than run, you had to fly. Die, damn you! A bullet brought down the ones who tried to get away. One dead Machiguenga, damn you! “It’s no use trying to escape from the camps,” said Tasurinchi. “The Viracochas have their magic. Something is happening to us. We must have done something. The spirits protect them, and us they abandon. We are guilty of something. It’s better to stick a chambira thorn into yourself or drink cumo juice. Going like that, from a thorn or poison, of your own free will, there’s hope of coming back. Those who go from a rifle bullet don’t come back. They stay floating on the river Kamabiría, dead amid the dead, forever.” It seemed that men were going to disappear. But aren’t we fortunate? Here we are. Still walking, still happy. After that time they never went to collect salt on the Cerro again. It must still be there, very high up, its pure soul looking the sun in the face.