Shadowline Drift: A Metaphysical Thriller by Alexes Razevich Page B

no men are allowed here unless specifically invited. Messes up the energy flow.”
    He thought that over. “I’m a kink in the works?”
    “ In Naheyo’s eyes.”
    Pilar tossed a stone into the water. They watched the small splash the stone made, and how the ripples spread.
    “ I do have to go,” she said. “The women are harvesting a forest flower today that blooms only once every three years. There’s an elaborate ritual that goes with the harvesting. I need to be there to record the ceremony.”
    “ I’ll walk back with you.” He stood first, using the cane for leverage, and held out his hand, not sure if he should, if it was acceptable, but he’d seen men do it. It was another thing Small Jake couldn’t have managed, and he wanted to know what it felt like to be tall enough. Strong enough. To feel her hand in his, and help her up.
    Pilar smiled and took his hand , though he could feel that she did most of the work of coming to her feet herself. Probably just as well, he thought, considering his ankle. But she held his hand a moment longer than she needed to before letting go, and it pleased him.
    He walked back with her through the forest, and didn ’t mind that his ankle made their progress slow.

Eight
     
    The silence bothered him. Not the absence of sound—the forest was filled with songs, hoots, and calls that filtered through the window into the room—but the absence of human sound. Pilar’s voice. The women coming and going, chattering among themselves. Sounds that reassured him he was no longer alone. The air in the little mud-brick room felt stifling. He got up to explore. Probably the only chance he would get.
    With Naheyo ’s cane to steady him, he hobbled down the corridor, an ungainly spy, pushing aside each doorway blanket to peek inside the rooms. They were all much the same. Unlike the room where he stayed, the walls were beamed in the corners. Strung between two of the posts, on iron eyehooks, a rope hammock was positioned to catch the breeze that came through the mosquito-netted window. Every room also held a dresser—each one identical to begin with, but now customized by the owner—spirals and dots on one, painted handprints on another, a painted vine climbing the drawers of yet a third. The human need to embellish, Jake thought. To surround oneself with what brings pleasure, comfort, and inspiration.
    In the room he thought must be Fant’s since there were three pictures of her on the wall, a framed photo of a young boy and girl standing at awkward attention had pride of place on the dresser top. The photo looked old. Fant and a brother? Fant’s children? Maybe she would visit those people when she arrived in the village. Then she would come back. She’d bring someone with a canoe. Jake would leave. Find a phone. Warn people about benesha.
    Naheyo ’s room sat at the end of the corridor, nearest the door. Nearest the forest. First, or last, in line. He stood in the doorway and looked around. That it was her room was obvious. Old glass or plastic bottles and plastic buckets were filled with leaves and roots, bones, and powders. Five photographs in tarnished frames were hung on the wall. She was in every one of them, staring straight at the camera, no trace of a smile on her mouth. A cape of jaguar fur lay carefully folded on what had to be a silent butler from a high-end hotel. Mawgis had ceramic mugs and a tall silver teapot; Naheyo had a silent butler. Was there some sort of Amazonian market that dealt in used hotel supplies? The top of Naheyo’s dresser was empty except for a red cloth tied into a bag and set carefully dead center. Colored stones in three concentric circles surrounded the cloth. For magical purposes or only decoration? Either way, whatever the cloth bag held was small and round and seemed to mean something to her. He took a step in, to peek closer at the cloth and the private space of the shaman.
    A soft, almost electric f rizz ran through his belly. His