The Storm

By Wesley Useche

The sun had risen just an hour ago when Miguel went out to the fields.
Slung across his shoulder his fennel colored bag shone in the dawn light,
its flat green blades catching and reflecting the sunbeams in a dozen
directions. In it were his tools and supplies, a bagful of Farina, a rusty
old trowel, and a metal pot of rainwater – the little he owned. As the
path widened to the clearing of his Finca the sounds of his footsteps
caused a rush of birds to emerge from the top of the trees. They were
calling – screaming and acting like the nagging guardians of the jungle.
The noise came in a cacophonous mesh of tones, textures, and pitch.
Initially there was only the lone “Krrrraaak” of the Toucanet, yet soon
enough the “Crokrakrakra” of the Jabiru joined the mix. An interrupting
shrill trill stole the stage as the swoops of the Aracari built upon this
woven tapestry of noise. Then in an instant the orchestra was drowned
out; silenced by the high pitched scream of the tiny Piha, his screech
echoing through the trees and carrying on for miles into the distance.
The loudest of the jungle’s guardians was voicing his utmost disproval at
the intrusion made by Miguel into his land. Or maybe he was welcoming
the hard-laboring native back home. Either way the small bird’s voice
took charge, acting as a supreme commander of the jungle’s morning air.
Miguel looked up as he finally arrived at his plot of land; the fierce
Amazonian sun was already bearing down on his back as he bent over to
tend his crops. The clearing was not your typical farm, nor was it fully
cleared. The outer edges were dotted with various fruit trees, Carambola
and Maracuya – Açaí and Plantain – clumped in miniature groves they
managed to shelter the inner sanctum of the plot. There leaves extended
from the ground as Yuca and Sugar Cane fought for control of this
domain. Soon Miguel put himself to work; he destroyed the weeds and
saplings encroaching from the jungle, harvested whatever was ripe, and
cleaned up the remnants of whatever had been eaten by the apes and
creatures of the night before.

At noon while the sun was high overhead, Miguel rested in the shade,
taking handfuls of the Farina in his pocket and washing it down with
water. He soon returned to his plants, continuing what he could until the
late afternoon. The sun was low in the sky and the dangerous
Amazonian night threatened to encroach upon his work, swallowing him
up as it had so many before him. So he returned to his humble abode;
with its unpainted walls made of mismatched chain cut board, with its
haphazard construction and spaces between the slabs and the holes
allowing Amazonian insects entry. He ate the simple meal prepared for
him by his wife; a better man would think between scoops of rice and
fish, that his life really could be better. But for Miguel tomorrow would
be a new day and bring a trip to the city, him and many others in the
village needed supplies. Things like rice and salt, butter and coffee, all
were unobtainable here.
But these future events were soon far removed from Miguel’s mind that
he soon forgot them, opting instead to think about his field and his house
and remain content with his life as it was. Soon the light bulb overhead
would begin to flicker, and the generator would shut off. The four hours
of electricity they had daily would be gone, plunging them into the
darkness of the Amazonian night. Miguel was quick to prepare the beds
and hammocks for his family, setting up the mosquito netting and
playing with his children before they slept. With a toothy grin he told
them stories about the world outside, and soon enough the bulb overhead
flashed and went dark. His remaining thoughts focused on the birds of
the night, their gentle songs lulling him to bed.
The next morning Miguel was up early, Andres had come to his front
door with wild-eyed expectations clouding his vision. Andres was a
dreamer and a thinker, he always thought about things, about the world
outside and the ways of the jungle and the river. Miguel unlike Andres
was a knower, he knew about the jungle and the river and the world
outside, he knew there was nothing out there he wanted. Andres had
requested to accompany Miguel and Pablo on this trip. Andres had been
to the city many times before, and had even lived there for a time, but
recently had fallen upon hard times. Against Miguel and Pablo’s wishes
the Curaca had agreed to this request.
And it was quite obvious that this morning Andres was more than ready
for the trip, having prepared a large transparent sack which swung from
his back while another one was swung from his hands. Large collections
of artisanal woodwork and exotic fruit filled both and had left Miguel
wondering where Andres had acquired such goods.
“Good Morning!” Andres smiled brightly at Miguel who shifted slightly
in the doorway. Miguel was understandably uneasy at this display of
eagerness by Andres.
“Good Morning…Andres” Miguel’s face remained plain, his mouth
open a bit.
“We are to go today are we not?” Andres motioned towards the
shoreline, eager to begin the long trip.
“Yes…about that-” Miguel was interrupted by the arrival of Pablo and
the Curaca. Pablo dressed in his simple clothes and the Curaca donning
the ceremonial dress used often only in the presence of strangers.
“You better head out, Miguel.” The Curaca’s words were in no manner
wasted for he was a busy man, yet they managed to convey the strong air
of command expected from such a leader.
“Why is that?” Miguel answered a bit bluntly, annoyed by the intrusion
of the two in this discussion.
“We’re expecting visitors today…you’ll save us the trouble of hiding the
boat.” The Curaca’s head rose high with an exaggerated sense of pride,
clearly emboldened by his traditional robes. He referred to the motorized
vehicle often hidden during the rare chance of a touristic visit, the image
of the locals as uncultured was hidden with expert efficiency when the
chance of making money presented itself.
“Very well…let me get my things…” He turned and returned to the
house, grabbing several large baskets, carrying them outside one by one
where Pablo and Andres, who promptly began walking, assisted him.
The group reached the dilapidated concrete bridge adjacent to the
riverbank and made their way down the soft and slippery soil that lead to
the collection of wooden boats banked there. Old canoes were the
general population of the small docking area, most powered by a oar or
two or if lucky a cheap peke-peke. The largest one was the target of the
three men who balanced tediously on the single chain cut beam that
served as the manner in which to board the particular vessel.
The boat had already been partially loaded and it was not too long until
the three men themselves boarded, gently offloading Miguel’s large
baskets and setting off down the river. The loud yell of the motor broke
through the ghostly silence of the Amazonian morning as mist continued
to rise from the mirror black water underneath the boat. Soon the group
had reached the main stream instead of their little tributary, here the
bright chocolate muddy water of the main Solimões combined with the
dark sediment filled water of the tributary which stood solitary against
the barrage of the main stream. The waters did not mix, one acting like
oil and to create a visible barrier between the two. This border marked
the end of the world as the natives knew it and the beginning of the
world beyond their village.
The rest of the trip was uneventful, the little eddies in the water swirling,
the large branches and trunks sticking out of the river being washed
downstream, entire families fit into a single canoe, all these floated by
quickly in the mind of Miguel and even quicker in the mind of Andres. It
had been nearly four hours since they departed once they reached the
city, docking at a large floating house, its body connected to the land
only by more untrustworthy planks. The group quickly managed to
unload and haul their goods to the local market, selling their wares off in
record time. In the time remaining it was up to Miguel and Pablo to
purchase the much needed supplies for the village, as for Andres he
hurried off to wrap up his own affairs.
Behind the constant hum of the electric generators of the town’s main
power source sat a small enclave of cheap wooden houses, their
corrugated tin roofs glinting in the noon sun. Serviced only by a series of
poorly constructed dirt roads the area had more than a seedy look to it.
That day a young man approached one of the houses, on his back an
empty bag, in his hand a large amount of money. The door opened
before the young man, words were exchanged quickly, and soon some of
the money disappeared replaced simply by a small white bag to be
hidden away in a pocket.
The sun had sunk low by the time they had finished their shopping. It
had receded into the horizon like a fiery stone calling from a pitch black
hole. The day in a matter of minutes had turned to the pitch-black
darkness of the cruel night. This new challenge faced the group of
travelers. Travel on the river at night, especially in a small wooden
canoe was suicide. So they sought shelter in the old concrete façade of
an ancient church, the proprietors often having visited the small village
of theirs
While he was there, Miguel experienced that evening’s service, the
fervent singing and elevated praised leading to the feverous sermon and
alter call. As people dropped to the floor around him Miguel realized a
truth far too perceptive for a person of his talents, He realized it
nonetheless, these Christians brought their own form of superstitions;
exchanging apples for oranges, providing nothing more then another god
to worship and another evil to fear.
As the multitudes filed out, chattering amongst themselves, Miguels
eyes opened. This services was the same, the same as any service they
had in the village. This religion was not to different from their own and
there was nothing for it.

Miguel and Pablo had finished gathering their supplies and had already
dragged them to the boat when Andres returned. Smiling in the
afternoon sun Andres told them all had gone well and soon the three set
off, leaving the city and all it had behind them. The return was not
nearly as uneventful as the ride there for clouds began to gather as soon
as the small ship had left port, threatening one of those large storms seen
almost daily in the rainforest. The rain poured down from the sky like
bullets, the tarp covering the boat could barely keep up with the
pressure, and as the three raced back to the village they could not help
but feel a fear within their hearts of the danger that they faced. They
sensed within their minds a certain curse upon them, the superstitious
imaginings often brushed off by Miguel. Nonetheless, once thunder and
lightning began to echo from one side of the river to the other he could
not help but wonder if this was some kind of punishment from one of the
tribes Gods, for having left the village and ventured into the paganistic
lands of the foreigners, or so he imagined. Miguel donned a t-shirt and
jeans, he grew up in a town where electricity and white tourists were not
uncommon; yet the irony of this situation was lost on Miguel and as the
small canoe continued to float down the river silence was the only
response gained by the raindrops.
Upon the boats arrival at the village the whole tribe came out to meet the
returning adventurers. The storm had left the paths into the village
muddy and slippery, and it took a brave soul to try and reach the village
now much less carry supplies there. Yet through the bravery of many the
boat was left empty and all those items that were needed were
distributed among the villagers. Returning to his humble abode Miguel
eat the dinner his wife had prepared and slept.
But deep in the Amazonian night something prevented Miguel’s
slumber. It was not as if Miguel was not accustomed to the noises of the
night. It was not strange to hear a bat or two a chicken or a dog barking
in the village, nor was it too odd to hear the hissing of a Jaguar or the
screeching of a Monkey. Nonetheless something within Miguel did not
allow him to sleep. Peering out through the mosquito netting covering
his windows he saw a light, barely visible in the pitch black darkness of
this moonless night. It sprang to Miguel’s mind that to see a light at this
hour of the night was quite odd, for nearly half the evening had come
and gone. Nonetheless he quietly stalked out of his house, darting across
the village ever nearing the light. For a few moments he thought he had
lost it, but out of the corner of his eye he saw it clearly enough once
more, a light disappearing down the very trail that lead to his little farm.
Staying as far behind as he possibly could Miguel’s mind could not help
and wonder as he began to think of the dangers presented by the
Amazonian night. Snakes, Jaguars, Bats, and all other sorts of dangerous
animals lurked in the darkness. Nonetheless Miguel forced himself to
swallow his fear and continue down the path.
On the horizon Miguel soon saw another light, then a third and as soon
as the first light reached it the footsteps in front of him stopped. Miguel
moved around behind the trees, hiding within one of the groves he
himself had planted. Standing in the darkness, faces illuminated by the
flickering flame of candles stood Andres and two other villagers. Miguel
watched slowly first intrigued and then horrified as the two handed
Andres money and then from his pocket Andres produced a small white
bag. Cutting it open with a machete he quickly poured a white powder
into two cups the men had been carrying. Miguel leaned forward to try
and get a better look at the two faces, but he quickly slipped in the mud
of the previous afternoon’s rain. The sound alerted Andres who turned
around, bringing a finger to his lips. Andres slowly approached the
grove of trees as Miguel frantically attempted to find a way to hide.
Holding up his candle to the spaces in between the tree, Andres was
almost certain to find the hiding Miguel. Suddenly, out of the bows of
one of the trees, a bat flew straight into towards the face of Andres
causing him to drop the candle and curse loudly. The two men behind
him let out loud laughs as Andres picked up his candle and relit it,
nodding at them before venturing towards the village once more.
Miguel waited for the three men to leave before returning to his house,
yet despite the tired nervousness he faced he could not rest. As he
walked through the doorway of his humble wooden bungalow his eyes
fell to his wife, fast asleep in her bed, and to his children. As he returned
to his hammock it was not long before the darkness of the night overtook
him.
The next day tried Miguel, attacking his fatigue and mental state with
the strong sun that burned overhead and the hard work he had to do. His
field was no longer the innocent product of his own labor anymore but a
dark omen upon his mind. As soon as he had set out towards the clearing
the birds begin to sign once more, no longer a welcoming song; it was
twisted to a song of foreboding and warning. The Toucanet no longer
seemed happy, and the jovial nature of the Jabiru had gone, the Aracari
trills were deeper, and the Piha was not heard at all.
It was from the moment he left his field that Miguel decided he must do
something. He may have lived a simple life, but in his mind he was not a
simple man. Approaching the Maloka located in the center of the village,
he entered quickly with such shame that his own figure was itself a
shadow.
“Curaca….” Seated in the dark coolness of the Maloka’s shadow sat the
village’s leader. He was surrounded by some of the tribe’s senior
members, a meeting interrupted by Miguel’s haste.
“Yes Miguel?” The Curaca frowned, clearly not happy about being
interrupted.
“There’s…something important I need to tell you.” Miguel looked
frantic and afraid; as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Very well Miguel, what is it?”
“Last night...I was awakened...” Miguel’s story was interrupted by his
own nervousness and pauses.
“I saw…I saw Andres selling something to some other men...”
The Curaca sighed, “Selling what?”
“A White Powder…” Miguel answered loudly, the Curaca frowned.
“Are you sure it was Andres? How could you even see what was traded
in the moonlight? It could have as well been a dream Miguel…”
The Curaca let out a louder sigh and waved Miguel away.
“Come back later, and we will investigate this matter; but currently I am
busy.” The Curaca’s remarks soon turned back to the men around him,
and the game they were playing.
Miguel left the Maloka rather quickly, disappointed and betrayed. He
made a decision in his mind to talk to Andres and approached the small
hut on the edge of town where Andres resided.
“Andres?” Miguel called into the dark shadows of the hut a few times
before receiving an answer.
“Yes?” Andres emerged from the hut, clearly awakened from some sort
of sleep.
“What is it Miguel?” Andres smiled earnestly and this time that smile
put chills down Miguel’s back.
“I need to talk to you…Andres..” Miguel frowned and fidgeted, clearly
nervous.
“Ah..” Andres looked back into the house. “I’m a bit busy right now…
Would you mind if we talked later?”
Miguel frowned, attempting to peer past Andres, his vision blocked by
the darkness of the hut. “Very well…”
“I’ll be in my field…” Miguel muttered. “Find me there…”
Andres waved as Miguel walked away before disappearing into the
darkness of his abode once more.
Miguel was beating the field when Andres arrived at the clearing.
Miguel’s angered was in the process of being transferred into root and
earth beneath his feet and hoe.
“I’m here Miguel…” Andres was smiling once again, but Miguel could
not frown, he laid down his hoe and stared at Andres.
“Andres…I saw you last night..” Miguel confronted Andres directly.
“You saw me last night?” Andres let out a small laugh. “Do you mean to
say you came into my house?”
Miguel frowned, clearly not willing to deal with this line of
conversation. “I saw you with those drugs…I saw you selling them…”
Andres shrugged, “And what if I was…what do you have to do with it
Miguel?”
Miguel grit his teeth, “It’s not right…It’s not good for the village…it
doesn’t help us in any way!”
Andres let out a loud guffaw, “What here is worth protecting Andres?”
He pointed to the soil and the crops. “We’re nothing but a bunch of poor
farmers, we don’t have anything worth living for. We just work this
cursed ground until we die…at least I offer some kind of escape!”
Andres stomped his foot, “And you know as well as I do that for
everyone here there is no other.”
Miguel turned around, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t care…
this is worth protecting and living for. The beauty of where we live. It’s
far too late…it is going to end I’ve already informed the Curaca.”
“You did what?” Andres roared, leaping forward, grabbing quickly
something hidden in the waist of his jeans as Miguel turned around
quickly.
The blade of the machete flashed in the light of the Amazonian sun,
already high in the sky. The light on the blade disappeared soon enough,
replaced by the dark red streaks of blood. The specks of life launched
time and time again, onto the brown Amazonian ground.
In the distance the Piha screamed, a long deafening shout.