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North of the Killing Hand

By Joni M. Fisher

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1

August 3, 2002

Fourteen-year-old Nefi Jenkins settled into her perch thirty-four feet up a strangler fig tree, shaded by the canopy of the top branches. From her favorite place, she enjoyed a bird’s eye view of the Amazon from the Juruá River that wrapped the west and northern boundaries of the tribe’s territory, to the denser jungle to the east, and the swamp to the south. Her parents didn’t know of this place because they had not asked. Experience had shown her that forgiveness was easier to gain than permission. She did not want to be lectured about every injury and fatality from falls suffered in human history.
On a clear day, she could locate other tribes by smoke columns where women cooked at the center of other settlements. At the center of her village, surrounded by a dozen wooden huts with palm-frond rooftops, Mali cooked for Nefi’s family and her own.
Nefi longed to travel, even just to visit other tribes, but in August, the river ran low. Father said he refused to go out in August because the boat was too heavy to tow, but Nefi believed the real reason was his fear of anacondas that draped themselves on branches over the river like braided hemp ropes thrown from a ship. Father said anaconda did not live back in the states. He promised to take her there, but every year changed to ‘next’ year.
Nefi sighed. Each year grew longer, and this was the longest month of the year.
Birds scattered from trees along the riverbank west of the village. Nefi dug her father’s binoculars from her satchel to investigate the disturbance. A human-made bird call sounded. A warning. Moments later the seven other children of the village dashed to their hiding places.
Had the Matis crossed the river to hunt?
She leaned forward to see around leaves into the center of the village where three men with rifles faced Mali. The small elderly woman turned toward Mama and Papa, who walked toward the strangers. The shortest man pointed to Papa. Nefi focused the binocular lenses on the stranger’s face. The Pirarucu Man.
What kind of fool came to trade this time of year? He probably got his boat stuck in the shallow river. City dweller.
The Pirarucu Man pointed to the ground. Mama and Papa knelt. A chill ran up Nefi’s spine. He did not seem like a man who would ever ask for prayer. Nefi widened her view to see Mali step toward Mama and Papa. The Pirarucu Man raised his rifle and shot twice.
Nefi sucked in a deep breath. Mama and Papa slumped over. A tiny cloud of smoke rose from the rifle. A howl roared out of Nefi as if by sound alone she could scare off the Pirarucu Man.
She lost her balance and fell four feet onto a wide branch below, striking it hard enough to cut off her scream. Clinging to the branch, she watched Papa’s binoculars fall thirty feet before the rare and unmistakable sound of breaking glass marked the impact.
She shimmied to the tree trunk, hugged it, and slid to the next lower branch. The tree blurred, forcing her to blink repeatedly. Her mind spun. Her feet and arms worked on sense memory as her body scrambled down the familiar smooth-skinned fig tree into the cavernous wall-like folds in the trunk. Gasping and wobbly among tree roots that arched waist-high around her, she rubbed her eyes to clear away the nightmare images flashing in her mind.
Stepping over the shattered binoculars, she ran. Crashing through knee-high ferns and tree roots, she tore a fresh path back to the village. Her bare feet slapped the hard-packed mud. She trampled ferns and flowers, sending small creatures scuttling out of her way. She panted. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Small branches scratched her arms and her face. Stumbling over roots and vines, she groped her way upright and charged on. She raced to her village, to home, to Mama, to Papa, praying the binoculars lied.

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