times they remained among the more remote of the indigenous natives of Peru and Brazil, although they had been influenced by Western missionaries since the 1970s, and they had been ex posed to Western culture more than the other tribes across the border in the Brazilian refuge.
Marita was Matses, though she lacked the tattoos or nose piercings common to Matses women. Westerners called the Matses 'cat people' because of whiskerlike wooden pieces that the women wore in their noses as a matter of course and that men donned during special celebrations.
Michael wasn't sure what language Marita spoke, but he had heard that she had been away to school. He was fluent in both Spanish, the official language of Peru, and Portuguese, Brazil's dominant tongue.
It had been months since Michael had been with a woman- not since his wife died-but, for him, Marita's seductive light was cast by much more than her sexuality, although that too seemed considerable.
She had come out of the vines and stood on the ground where he could clearly see her, but where she could not see his work. That alone was different.
He felt he should continue with his map, let her decide whether to come closer. The map concerned a group of ani mals (people thought of them as plants) that he believed were closely related to a saltwater sponge-in this case a previously unknown freshwater species. He'd found them during a ten-day walk, Matses time, through the jungle and across the Yavari, into Brazil, where Matses had led him to another tribe that in turn led him to a quebrada, or small, deep, black-water river. Michael suspected that like some saltwater sponges, these might have anti-inflammatory or immunosuppressant properties. Shamans from this deep jun gle tribe in Brazil had used an extract from the animal, mixed with four other plant extracts, to heal what had ap peared to be neurological disorders that seemed to Michael like MS. Most noteworthy, however, was the fact that such cures were an apparent medical impossibility using conven tional therapy. In his own mind there was most definitely some rational explanation for this anecdotal information be cause the laws of nature were the laws of science, and the laws of science were ultimately the laws of the universe. It was up to the scientist to make the reconciliation between seeming conflicts. Some of this animal and plant material had been submitted to the pharmaceutical company and they were begging for more, though he had no idea why.
Returning to the site of a prior discovery was easy these days, thanks to the handheld GPS. Still, he wanted a good hand-drawn map, if not for actual use, then for his forthcoming book. A map would make the tale of the discovery of the sponges more vivid and exciting for the readers. Since the reserve was strictly regulated with a prohibition against vis itors and very remote, it was unlikely that an estranjeiro would try on his own to follow the map. As a final precaution Michael deliberately did not draw the map to scale.
A table of pine that had belonged to his grandfather, and had been brought from the United States up the Amazon River, supported his work. A stack of notebooks, blue in color and nicely bound, stood on one corner. Directly in front of him was a computer that sucked up its power from batteries that were recharged by a diesel generator. At one time he had thought of the generator as a vile intrusion on the jungle, but now he wasn't sure. A second, much longer table formed an L with the computer desk; on it were the Bunsen burners with clay pots, retorts, glass tubing, beakers, and various other laboratory items. Michael sometimes used modern conveniences in reproducing the concoctions of the shamans, but he often found it was best to use their methods and their materials at least the first time.
Michael looked up from his work: Marita had come to the bottom of the steps. She held something… a book- in triguing. When he held up his paper and beckoned her closer, she seemed to ponder the idea instead of fleeing. He lowered his eyes, waiting to see what would happen next.
Marita advanced, climbing two more steps. Michael ad mired her tangled, curly hair and the beautiful lines of her face. For the first time he realized that this haphazard pile of ringlets atop her head might be the result of grooming and not an accident of her DNA. She had clean, delicate features with an aquiline nose that displayed the European in her ge netics. Brazil and Peru were populated by an odd mix of peoples, and even among the riverine tribes any combination of hair, complexion, and eye color might pop out of a Peruvian or Brazilian womb.
The Matses, who did not consider themselves riverinos, had for centuries had an odd custom of kidnapping women for wives. They commonly had raided faraway villages, especially riverinos, and hence had introduced an especially wide variety of DNA into their gene pool. A Matses man could have up to four wives. Two was still common, and be fore the 1960s all of a man's wives might have been stolen from distant peoples.
So Michael couldn't guess what this strange girl's her itage might be. He had learned her name from the people of the various families living on the river down the way. On one occasion when Marita had come in the afternoon, he had fol lowed her through the jungle until darkness swallowed her and she had left him behind to pick his way back through the blackness. It had taken all the skills that he had learned from his father and the Matses to find his way home, and as he stepped onto the porch, he had looked around to see a slen der shadow retreating down the path. She had followed him. He looked down at the map again, wondering how he ap peared to Marita. Michael had curly blond hair and light skin. The blue of his eyes matched the blue of the extrava gant morpho butterflies, his face lean like his body. Some riverinos thought Michael Bowden to be a pink river dolphin in disguise, and therefore he was rumored to have great se ductive power with the native girls, who in fact flocked around whenever he entered a village. It was said that under his hair was a cap and that if you pulled it off, the dolphin head would be exposed down between his ears.
Eight months previous, after his wife died-murdered, actually-Michael had become deeply depressed before he became angry. He barely ate for a month and, for the first time, began questioning his life in the jungle. One day, lying on his porch watching the bugs crawl over his pots and burners, he'd seen Marita appear. She had thrown him some man ioc bread. While he ate, she watched as though he might disappear if she didn't pay close enough attention.
This evening she wore a white pullover blouse of cotton livened up with some hand embroidery. Her legs were bare and she wore brief shorts fashioned from faded blue jeans. Unlike most of the clothing worn by the natives, her outfits were always clean.
When next he looked her way, he saw a forthrightness in her stare. He had the feeling that she was working up to something, although he couldn't imagine what it might be unless she intended to venture onto the porch. Just as he thought it, she walked up the stairs and stood at the top, hes itant and small like some delicate creature of the wild.
There was a chair on the opposite side of the table. Using his foot, he pushed it out and angled it, making it easy for her to sit. Then he nodded.
'Have a seat if you like.' He said it in Spanish and then in Portuguese. He had overheard a conversation and had gotten the idea that she might have been in Brazil for her schooling. He was reluctant to say or do more, since direct attention on his part would send her skittering and he very much did not want that to happen.
Sometimes he thought of going to the city, maybe Manaus or Iquitos, to meet a woman, but he seldom ventured there. He knew that apart from the science that he read about in a myriad of periodicals, the world was leaving him behind. It had been pulling away since he was nearly twelve years old, and he left Ithaca, New York, with his father. Michael knew the names of a few movies but had seen only one in sixteen years. It was a good enough experience, but it just wasn't as compelling as his writing or his research or the poetry and literature he read before sleep. He had a clear recollection of television, but even as a child he hadn't been particularly enthusiastic. Growing up in New York State and California, he had been studious enough to be teased by other children, ex cept he also excelled in wrestling. That seemed to make his disdain for frivolity acceptable. By twelve, when his father took him to the Amazon, he was an apt home-schooled pupil learning easily everything from mathematics to physics and biology. Only the social sciences lacked interest for him.
Michael graduated from college by correspondence and had since been awarded two honorary Ph. D. s in absentia for his research and writing. Before his wife died, he had viewed his world as expansive and as much a feast for the mind and soul as a man could ever need. Science was exploding in all directions. Sometimes he read in a frenzy, moving from one article or paper to another, never able to keep up. People from all over the world sent him things, most of which were interesting, some of which were vital. The balance of his time he spent writing of his experiences and work in the Amazon, its tribes and flora and fauna. Exclusive of his purely scientific articles, all of his writing incorporated sto ries. He never wrote just about a creature or a plant but rather always told the story that led him to it, and about the people he encountered along the way. He deliberately chose a plain style so that even a mind numbed by years of television might partake and find an adventure worth considera tion.
Such a tale might come from today's experience. Michael watched as Marita slowly lowered herself into the chair, placed her book in her lap, and folded her hands on the table. It appeared in his brief look that the book was
