The Soulkeepers

Chapter 22: The Healer

Chapter 22
The Healer 

Jacob tried not to mind when the Achuar children poked at him experimentally. Not wanting to provoke any additional attention, he looked away, toward the painted brown skin of the Achuar women as they worked over a pot nearby. They mashed and chewed a root and then spit it into a large caldron. Near them, men with painted faces worked to bind the snake meat to a stake. Others stoked a massive pit fire. Soon, the stake was over the flames and the cooking snake meat filled the village with an aroma he could only compare to grilled fish.

Dr. Silva emerged from the hut and motioned for him to join her. She eyed the children, who were, by this time, swinging from Jacob's nonparticipating arms. "Jacob, stop playing around. The medicine woman is ready to see you now."

"Let go," Jacob said, jerking his hands away from his giggling tormentors. He stepped to Dr. Silva's side.

"It's because you're tall," she whispered in his ear. "We are the tallest here plus our skin is different, of course. They think we are a novelty. It's entertaining to them." She put her arm around his shoulders and guided him into the dimly lit hut.

He didn't respond to Dr. Silva's comment because he was too busy mentally digesting the scene within the hut. An old woman sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, drinking from a carved cup. Dr. Silva motioned for him to sit on the floor in front of her. Jacob slid down to his knees then positioned himself to mirror the woman's cross-legged form. She handed him a hollowed-out gourd containing a thick yellowish liquid.

"It's fermented manioc root. It's perfectly safe. Please drink it," Dr. Silva whispered from the corner of the hut.

He did. The thick, sour substance found its way down his throat with some effort. His head swam a little by the time he finished and he couldn't tell if he was slightly intoxicated by the stuff or just had indigestion.

From a clay pot at her side, the medicine woman pulled a thick piece of braided rope. She lit the end and a swirl of blue smoke wafted up to a hole in the roof. Around his body, she circled the smoke, the heady perfume filling the hut. The smell was sweet and musty, not unlike oak leaves burning. After three times outlining him in fire and smoke, she stopped and placed the burning rope in the pot.

With a tip of her head, she motioned for Jacob to lie down on a mat of woven palms. He hadn't noticed it before but it was just to his left. When he was positioned flat on his back, she placed a rolled-up animal skin beneath his head. Her hands hovered above him, moving in a random series of quick bursts and achingly slow pulls through the air. In a dance of ancient movements, she surrounded him until, after some time, she brought her hands down within an inch of his face. The calloused brown skin of her palms reminded him of dirt. Those earth hands passed over him, close to his skin, once and again, never touching him but skimming every inch of his body. They hovered over his shoulders, his stomach, and down each leg. Finally, her fingertips settled over his heart.

Through the smoke within the dimly lit hut, the lines in the old woman's face were a map of time. Her entire history and the history of her people were carved into her skin. Her dark eyes shone like stars from within leather folds: landmarks on the topography of her life.

Her fingers pulled air over his chest. While there was nothing in her hands, she pretended to scoop some invisible substance, cupping it in her palm before throwing it in the smoking pot near her knees. After she had done this several times, the strangest thing happened. A rising started in his body. It came from his toes, flowed through his fingertips, and emerged through his chest. She was pulling something out of him, something he didn't want or need. He felt lighter than before, as if his body might follow the smoke and float up from the mat toward the hole in the roof.