Little Tiny Teeth

Cisco took another moment to finish translating. “. . . for toothache, but it might give you convulsions for a few days. Thank you. And now somebody should give him a gift.”

“But he hasn’t said a single word about insects,” Duayne protested. “Aren’t insects a part of their pharmacopoeia?”

But Cisco shook his head. “Nah, show’s over. Th-th-th-that’s all, folks. Gift time.”

“What do we give him, money?” Tim asked.

“No, certainly not money,” Scofield said, scolding him. “It would shame him. I brought something more appropriate.” He pulled from his pocket a Ziploc bag with some shiny metal objects in it and offered it to the shaman with a bright smile. “A dozen fishhooks,” he said confidently. “That’ll take care of it.”

Yaminahua looked at them with disdain. He shook his head and said something to Cisco.

154

Cisco translated. “He already has fishhooks. He says he’d rather have a hat with a picture on it. Anybody got one to spare?”

“A hat with a picture on it . . . ?” an incredulous, seemingly offended Scofield echoed.

Gideon had one in his day pack, a white baseball cap with two smiling green alligators on it and the words Woodland Park Zoo. He pulled it out and offered it to Yaminahua, who grabbed for it eagerly. He examined it with care, turning it round and round in his hands, obviously coveting it, and yet somehow not entirely satisfied. He surprised Gideon by seizing him by the shoulder and turning him around so that, by standing on the first wooden step Yaminahua was tall enough to pull up the flap of Gideon’s backpack and root around inside, right up to his skinny elbow, in hopes of finding something else, all the while querulously chattering at Cisco.

“Is there a problem?” Gideon asked Cisco.

“He says the hat’s okay, but don’t you have any other colors?”

THE rooftop stargazing that Gideon, Phil, and John had found so enjoyable the previous night wasn’t quite as relaxing tonight. The problem was that everyone else had discovered the cool, pleasant locale as well and carried up chairs to enjoy it, so that it had gotten crowded up there. Mel, and then Duayne, had come wandering up and had decided to join Gideon, Phil, and John, so that Gideon, who was really interested in getting himself as close to horizontal as his chair would allow, turning his face up to the stars, and letting the refreshingly cool night air wash over him, was forced to participate in a coherent conversation, or at least pretend to listen to the one going on around him.

155

Maggie was the last to come upstairs. For the first few hours after dinner, she had been in the lower deck salon, working with a portable plant dryer that she’d set up there, processing the considerable haul of medicinal, toxic, and hallucinogenic plants that she’d collected during the hike. But at about nine, she had come up and, somewhat to Gideon’s surprise, had set down her chair next to Tim’s and Cisco’s. He could hear the three of them comparing observations on the various exotic botanicals they had encountered. Beyond them, Scofield, who, much to Gideon’s envy, had discovered an ancient, full-length, folding beach chair somewhere, lay quietly, with a pot of tea on the deck beside him. His choice of a spot at the very rear, between the guy wires that supported the smokestack and well away from the others, had made it clear that he preferred to be left alone, and he was left alone. For a while the smell of his too-sweet tobacco hung in the air but now he was sound asleep, his pipe having fallen from his hand some time before. An occasional soft, snuffling snore could be heard.

“You know what that stuff is he’s drinking?” Mel was saying, looking rather unkindly in Scofield’s direction. Mel had ordered a bottle of Merlot for dinner, and although he had offered it freely around, nobody had had much appetite for red wine in that kind of weather. He had consumed almost all of it himself and he was showing the effects.

“It’s not tea?” asked Duayne.

“Oh, yeah, I guess you could call it tea, but your mother’s orange pekoe it’s not. It’s made from coca leaves.”

“You mean mate?” said Phil.

“That’s what he says, but regular mate has the watchamacallit removed—”

“The cocaine alkaloids,” contributed Gideon, marginally awake.

156

“Right, whatever. Well, this stuff has something in it, I can tell you that. I had some after-dinner sessions with him at his house a couple of times while we were working on the book. And both times, come eight o’clock or so, he gets all wiggly and jumpy and then makes himself this tea—it’s supposed to be for some stomach problem or something, yada yada yada—”

“Actually,” Gideon said, “they do drink mate down here for stomach problems.”

“Well, all I know is, both times the guy’s completely out of it inside an hour. I had to let myself out. Once I came back the next morning at nine, and he shows up on the doorstep in the same clothes, all sleepy and dopey, with his hair all mussed and all. I mean, obviously, he’d been spaced out the whole time, probably never got out of his damn chair.”

This was the most wordy they’d heard Mel, and the most irate, and for a few moments there was silence. “You don’t get along very well with him, do you?” John asked.

Mel was indeed in a confiding mood, and there followed a list of grievances, foremost among which was that Scofield had assured him—had promised him—that his name would be on the title page of Potions, Poisons, and Piranhas, right up there with his own.

“So he gives us all the book, right? Big fanfare and everything. ‘Hot off the press, fine bookstores everywhere.’ So naturally, I’m excited, I look for my name and I don’t see it, and that sonofabitch tells me with a smile on his face, oh yes, sure my name’s there, see? Right on page Roman numeral three, down there with his faithful typist and the nice lady at the library. And he looks at me like I’m supposed to be grateful. I swear—” He folded his hands