Amazonia

The missionary wiped the soot from his face with a handkerchief. 'It was m . . . my fault. I should've known better:' He glanced over his shoulder to the steepled church. Aside from being stained with ash and smoke, it stood unharmed. He covered his eyes, and his shoulders shook. It took him another moment to speak. 'It was my decision to send the man's body to Manaus.'

Nathan suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. 'Padre Batista?' It was the mission's leader, the one who had found Gerald Clark.

The tall Brazilian nodded. 'May God forgive me:'

Nate guided Garcia Luiz Batista away from the blackened ruins of the village and into untouched green fields. He quickly introduced himself as he led the man back to his church. En route, he passed one of the Rangers, covered in soot and sweat, and asked him to send the O'Briens to the church.

With a sharp nod, the Ranger took off.

Nate walked the padre up the wooden steps and through the double doors. The interior was dark and cool. Varnished wooden pews lined the way to the altar and giant mahogany crucifix. The room was mostly empty. A few Indians lay sprawled, exhausted, both on the floor and on pews. Nate led the church's leader toward the front and settled him in the first pew.

The man sagged into his seat, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. 'It's all my fault:' He bowed his head and lifted his hands in prayer.

Nathan remained quiet, giving the man a private moment. The church door swung open, and he spotted Frank and Kelly. Professor Kouwe was with them. All three were covered in ash from head to toe. He waved them over.

The arrival of the other three drew Padre Batista's attention from his prayers. Nathan made introductions all around. Once done, he sat beside the padre. 'Tell me what happened. How did the fires start?'

Garcia glanced around at the others, then sighed heavily and looked at his toes. 'It was my own shortsightedness:'

Kelly sat on the man's other side. 'What do you mean?' she asked softly.

After a moment more, the padre spoke again. 'On the night the poor man stumbled out of the forest, a shaman of the Yanomamo tribe scolded me for taking the man into the mission. He warned me that the man's body must be burned.' The padre glanced at Nathan. 'How could I do that? He surely had family. Maybe he was even a Christian.'

Nathan patted his hand. 'Of course'.

'But I should not have so easily dismissed the Indians' superstitions. I had put too much faith in their conversion to Catholicism. They'd even been baptized:' The padre shook his head.

Nate understood. 'It's not your fault. Some beliefs are too ingrained to be washed away in a single baptism:'

Padre Batista sagged. 'At first, all seemed well. The shaman was still angered at my decision not to burn the body, but he accepted that at least it was gone from the village. This seemed to appease him:'

'What changed that?' Kelly asked.

'A week later, a couple of children in the village developed fevers. It was nothing new. Such ailments are commonplace. But the shaman decided these illnesses were the sign of a curse from the dead man:'

Nate nodded. He had seen firsthand such assessments himself. In most Indian tribes, illness was considered not only due to injury or disease, but often to a spell cast by the shaman of another village. Wars had broken out over such accusations.

'There was nothing I could do to dissuade him. In another few days, three more children fell ill, one of them from the Yanomamo shabano. The whole village grew tense. In fear, entire families packed up and left. Every night, drums beat and chanting could be heard.' Garcia closed his eyes, 'I radioed for medical assistance. But when a doctor arrived from junta four days later, none of the Indians would let the man examine their children. The Yanomamo shaman had won them over. I tried to plead, but they refused any medical help. Instead, they left the little ones in the care of that witch doctor.'

Nathan bristled at this term. He glanced to Professor Kouwe, who gave a small shake of his head, indicating Nate should remain silent.

The padre continued. 'Then last night, one of the children died. A great wailing consumed the village. To cover up his failure, the shaman declared the village cursed. He warned that all should leave here. I tried my best to calm the panic, but the shaman had the others under his spell. Just before dawn, he and his fellow Yanomamo tribesmen set fire to their own roundhouse, then fled into the jungle:' Garcia was now openly weeping. 'The . . . the monster had left the sick children inside. He burned them all alive:'

The padre covered his face with his hands. 'With so few still in the village to help fight the fire, the flames spread through the huts. If you all had not come and helped, we could have lost everything. My church, my flock:'

Nathan placed a hand on the man's shoulder. 'Don't despair. We can help you rebuild:' He glanced over to Kelly's brother for confirmation.

Frank cleared his throat. 'Of course. A contingent of Rangers and researchers are going to remain here after we head into the jungle. As guests here, I'm sure they'll be more than willing to haul in supplies with their helicopters and lend you manpower to rebuild the village out of the ashes:'

The man's words seemed to strengthen the padre. 'God bless you:' He wiped his eyes and nose with his handkerchief.

'We'll do all we can,' Kelly assured him. 'But, padre, time is of the essence for us, too. We hope to begin tracking the dead man's trail before it grows any colder:'

'Of course, of course. . :' Garcia said in a tired voice, and stood. 'I'll tell you all I know:'

It was a short talk. The padre explained as he led them past the altar to the common rooms of the church. The dining room had been converted into a makeshift hospital for smoke-inhalation victims, but no one appeared seriously injured. Garcia related how he had convinced a few Indians to track the dead man's trail, in case the fellow had any companions out there. The trail led to one of the tributaries of the Jarura River. No boat was found, but the tracks seemed to follow the offshoot's course, heading west into the most remote sections of the rain forest. The Indian trackers feared going any farther.

Kelly leaned on a window overlooking the rear garden. 'Can someone show us this tributary?'

Garcia nodded. He had washed his face and seemed to have collected himself. Steel had entered his voice and demeanor as the initial shock wore away. 'I can get my assistant, Henaowe, to show you.' He pointed to a small Indian.

Nathan was surprised to see the man was Yanomamo.

'He was the only one of the tribe who remained behind,' Garcia said with

a sigh. 'At least the love of our Lord Jesus was able to save one of them.'

The padre waved his assistant over and spoke rapidly in Yanomamo. Nathan was

surprised at how fluent the priest was in the dialect.

Henaowe nodded, agreeing, but Nathan saw the fear in his eyes. Saved or not, deep-seated superstitions still ruled the man.

The group proceeded back outside, the damp heat falling upon them like a wet wool blanket. They skirted around the helicopters to find the Rangers had been busy. A line of rucksacks, heavily packed, lay in the dirt. A Ranger was positioned behind each one.

Captain Waxman was inspecting both his men and their gear. He spotted the group and straightened. 'We're ready to head out whenever you give the go.' Waxman, in his forties, was pure military: stone-faced, broadshouldered, his field uniform crisp with pressed creases. Even his brown hair had been shaved to a stubble atop his head.

'We're ready now,' Frank said. 'We've got someone here to set us on the right trail.' He nodded to the small Indian.

The captain nodded and turned sharply. 'Load up!' he called t~ his men.

Kelly led their group to another row of backpacks, each about half the size of the Rangers' rucksacks. There, Nathan found the last members of the expedition. Anna Fong was in deep conversation with Richard Zane, both in matching khaki outfits with the Tellux logo emblazoned on the shoulders. To their side stood Olin Pasternak, sporting a clean but clearly well-worn set of gray coveralls with black boots. He bent down to pick up the largest of