I can hear her weeping. Her sorrow is carried through the vines overhead and passed from tree to tree. I can feel her tears on my face in the dampness of the mist that floats silently through the jungle like the ghosts of our ancestors. She takes no pleasure in what she has done. She has a reverence for all life… except those who seek to destroy it.
I am the only survivor of Ocampo’s logging crew. They are all dead, along with my Uncle Luis. I am hopeful that help will come soon. I do not know how long I can lie here, unable to move, before something in the night finds me and satisfies its hunger.
For that reason, I must tell you what happened, while I still can. It is important that you listen, that you heed my warning. Her warning.
It began with a phone call.
***
“I’ve got a job for you.”
After my father was gunned down by the Cartel, Uncle Luis made it his mission to look out for me. By helping me, he was also helping my mother and my two sisters. Paying work was not easy to come by in Taracoa. As long as I wasn’t working for the Cartel, my mother approved. I didn’t even ask what the job was. If my uncle had paid work for me, I better say yes.
He told me to meet him down by the river at sunrise.
“I will be there,” I said.
Our region might be poor, but it is rich in everything and anything that grows. Coffee, coca, plantain and avocado. It rains most days here, and when the sun does come out, the heat is like a warm, damp shirt you cannot take off. There is a black market for orchids and other flowers. Colorful birds, exotic snakes and lizards. And, of course, the meat. Hunters sell bushmeat up and down the river to village markets. And then there are the trees—cedar and mahogany—our biggest resource. One cedar tree can net over four thousand sol—that is one thousand American dollars—from the right buyer. When I met up with my uncle, he told me we were going deep into the jungle with Ocampo’s logging crew.
Ocampo was a well-known businessman in the region. Some of his dealings were legitimate. Others not. The price of lumber had skyrocketed in recent months and there were cedar groves deep in the jungle free for the taking. Ocampo wasn’t the only one harvesting lumber in the jungle, but Ocampo was the only one ambitious enough to go where no one dared.
“Is it not risky?” I asked my uncle.
He stared at me with eyes that had seen more than his share of death. “Yes,” he said. “But we will make good money. Your mother will be proud.”
When the boat appeared out of the mist, I wasn’t expecting such a massive, noisy thing. It carried the rest of Ocampo’s crew and dragged a long flat raft behind it. At the head of the raft was a motorized winch that held a giant metal spool with at least a thousand feet of cable wound up tight. As the boat coasted past, nearly scraping the dock, my uncle and I hopped aboard.
I recognized most of Ocampo’s crew. Taracoa was a small village. Uncle Luis introduced me to the men and they accepted me like one of their own.
As the sun rose and the mist burned off, and people along the river bank began to go about their daily lives. I couldn’t help but feel naked amid all the clang and clatter the boat made. Perhaps this was a mistake, after all, I thought.
“Uncle, won’t somebody hear us?” I asked. “Won’t somebody see us and know where we are going?”
My uncle gave me a heads-up. I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder. It was Ocampo. “Who is going to report us? You?” The cigar in his mouth smelled like burning cow dung.
As I fumbled for something to say, there came laughter from the crew. My uncle included.
Ocampo squeezed me tight. “Nobody cares my young friend. God put the trees here for us. Who am I to say no to God?” Ocampo pointed to the sky and crossed himself. He then let me go.
Everyone had a good laugh from it. Even me. My uncle and Ocampo went way back, and Uncle Luis knew I didn’t grow up to be a snitch.
I can hear her stomach rumble as an army of carrion beetles strip the flesh from the crew. I feel tiny feet upon my skin but, for some reason, they leave me alone. Do they sense that I am still alive? Or has she told them not to touch me?
***
Several forks in the river later, we reached our destination. The boat and raft were tied to roots along the riverbank. That was our first mistake. The crew and their chainsaws went to work clearing a path into the jungle. No sooner had we reached the first kapok tree, the sky opened up and it began to rain.
Like I said, it rains here almost every day. But this was different. This was sudden. This was furious.
“Didn’t you check the weather?” Ocampo shouted above the downpour. It was directed at Galvez, the ship’s navigator. Ocampo was wearing a boonie hat but the rain had managed to put his cigar out. He tossed it into the mud where it was quickly swallowed up.
“Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Get the tarps! Take our young friend with you.”
I rushed to catch up to Galvez as he hurried back to the boat. We could barely see in front of us, and the mud was growing thicker by the second. The river reached us before we reached it. I had never seen anything like it. From the look on Galvez’s face, neither had he.
The river had swelled, flooding the bank where the boat had been tied off. The level had risen so much the ropes had come free. The boat and raft were gone. “Ocampo will not be happy,” said Galvez. He was right.
When Galvez and I rejoined the men empty-handed, Ocampo threw a fit. The men had gathered around the giant kapok, tucking their chainsaws in the dry spots. Uncle Luis had a fire going. The smoke it produced burned our eyes. The canopy helped a little to keep the rain off. But we were all soaked. The always impatient Rodrigo was the first to state the obvious.
“What now, boss?”
Ocampo shot him a look. If it had been a bullet, Rodrigo would have been dead. Ocampo took off his boonie hat and wrung it out, then put it back on. “We wait.”
***
I can hear her sobbing as she stitches their bones together with seedlings and saplings until they disappear one by one into the roots and vines that crisscross the jungle floor. They say we are the sum of the memories of those who love us. That might be true. But I believe we are also the sum of the good we leave behind.
***
The rain continued into the night. The fire sputtered but a splash of gasoline now and then kept it from going out. The crew settled into their spots and ate what food they had. Rodrigo had also brought a radio. He sat it on one of the kapok’s massive roots. It played one station. Huayno music. It wasn’t the kind of music he liked but it was soothing against the sound of the rain. But the radio finally crackled and died.
“The rain killed your radio, man,” said Uncle Luis. A chuckle circulated the camp.
“It must be the batteries. Not to worry, I brought extra.”
When Rodrigo popped open the battery compartment, a ball of beetles tumbled out. Rodrigo recoiled and dropped the radio in the mud.
“It’s dead, now,” said Uncle Luis.
More laughter.
With nothing to listen to, Rodrigo began pacing like a caged leopard. An animal cried out from the jungle. Rodrigo stopped, his eyes bulging toward the sound. “We got to get out of here,” he said.
“Why? Got a date tonight?”
“Didn’t your abuella ever tell you about the tunda?” said Rodrigo.
“My abuella was a drunk,” said Uncle Luis.
“My abuella was a whore,” said Galvez.
“So was your mother,” said Uncle Luis.
More laughter.
“Go ahead, make fun. But my abuella warned us not to go deep into the jungle. Because that is where the tunda lives.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Ocampo.
That’s when I chimed in. “The tunda is an earth spirit, a vengeful elemental that protects the jungle. Keeps it safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“From us,” I said.
“Oh, here we go. Is that what they’re teaching you kids in school these days?”
“He is right,” said Rodrigo. “Look at us. We are so far removed from God we do not recognize him anymore.”
“Which God?” said Ocampo. “The God who created the Cartel? The God who cuts us down like sugarcane if we get in their way?”
“That is not God,” said Rodrigo.
“No?”
“The God I speak of is the one who brings the storms, who moves the mountains and buries the villages. That is the God we should all be afraid of.”
“She is one angry bitch then,” said Ocampo with a chuckle.
The rest of the men laughed right along with him.
“The tunda is not to be played at. She is out there. She is watching us. Judging us. I can feel it.”
Galvez stood up. “Well, I got to take a piss.”
“Do not go far,” said Rodrigo.
Galvez scowled. “Yes, dear.”
Rodrigo was right. Something had shifted in the air. And it wasn’t the weather. In fact, the rain had increased its tempo.
Galvez walked to the edge of the fire light, beyond which he would have been swallowed up by the night. I could barely see him as he stood facing the jungle. Then I blinked and he was gone. There came a strange noise beneath the sound of the rain. It raised the hairs on my neck.
I stood. “Did anyone hear that?” I said.
“Hear what?” said Uncle Luis.
I pointed in the direction where Galvez had disappeared… and then he was there again. “Nothing, I guess.” I smiled, relieved. But there was something about the way Galvez was walking. It was more like a stagger. He was holding his hands to his chest. My uncle saw it, too. “Galvez? Everything alright?” he said.
“I saw her,” said Galvez. His face was pale.
“Who? Who did you see?”
“Liliana.”
“Who?”
Galvez staggered closer, staring into the fire. There was red beneath his hands.
“She was the love of my life.”
He looked up then and stared at us all. He pulled his hands away, revealing a gaping wet wound.
“She stole my heart,” he said. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell backward onto the wet ground. He never moved again.
“She’s here!” said Rodrigo, pacing back and forth. “We gotta get out of here!”
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” said Ocampo. “Check to see if he has a knife. He could have done that to himself.”
Nobody moved. We stared at Ocampo.
“Do I have to do everything?”
Angered, Ocampo bent over Galvez’s body and performed a quick inspection. “Well, something got him. Local tribe maybe?”
There came another howl from the jungle, closer this time.
Rodrigo stopped. The look on his face was suddenly calm. He walked over to the fire and grabbed a burning stick. He then bolted in the direction of the river.
“Rodrigo!” I shouted. I took two steps to try and stop him, but he was determined. “Damn it!”
“Let him go,” said Ocampo. “He’ll be back. If he doesn’t get lost.”
Through the curtains of rain, I watched the light Rodrigo carried grow smaller and smaller until it became indistinguishable from the night. The jungle became quiet, except for the sound of the rain. We were all watching, waiting. The jungle didn’t disappoint. There came a scream that was almost animal-like from the direction where Rodrigo had run. What happened next was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was an abomination of nature. It was against God.
Rodrigo returned. Or I should say: he was returned. His lifeless body lay prone on the jungle floor and yet was still moving, undulating as if riding a wave. The wave deposited him back at camp, close to where Galvez lay. In the firelight we could see a thick carpet of beetles run out from under Rodrigo’s body and scatter into the jungle. Even Ocampo recoiled.
“Still think it’s a local tribe?” said Uncle Luis.
There were no words to describe what we had just witnessed. While Uncle Luis and I were in shock at the sudden deaths of Galvez and Rodrigo, Ocampo went on the offensive. He shouted into the night.
“So, this is how you want to play it? Okay then. Let’s see who’s got the bigger cajones!”
Uncle Luis and I gave Ocampo a wide berth as he grabbed one of the chainsaws from the nest at the foot of the kapok tree. He brought it to life on the second pull and held it overhead, revving the two-stroke engine until it sounded like a swarm of angry hornets. There was a maniacal grin on Ocampo’s face as he glared at the surrounding jungle. He then swung the chainsaw downward toward one of the kapok’s massive roots. But before the blade could chew into the tree’s skin, Ocampo was whisked up into the air by a series of lianas that had quickly coiled around his arms and ankles. He disappeared from sight. We heard Ocampo scream once as the chainsaw revved and then sputtered. The chainsaw fell to the ground grumbling. Then pieces of Ocampo rained down in a shower of limbs and viscera.
Uncle Luis and I looked at each other. Whatever happened next was dependent upon our actions.
I stepped forward and shouted. “We meant no harm! We’re sorry!”
“What are you doing?” my uncle asked me.
“I’m trying to save our lives.”
“By appealing to a monster?”
I looked at my uncle. I didn’t know what to say. I held my arms out toward the jungle. “We’re still learning! Forgive us our ignorance!”
My uncle called to me. “Sobrino!” He nodded his head to our left. I turned then and saw her for the first time. The tunda.
The rain had suddenly let up and from out of the jungle came the most beautiful jaguar I had ever seen. She moved with the grace of eons. Commanding. Confident. Fire light danced in her large, expressive eyes. She snarled as she approached, revealing twin canines, pointed and lethal.
I kneeled in the mud and bowed my head.
“Sobrino, no!” my uncle said. He must have believed I was going to offer myself as sacrifice to this “monster.” But I was merely bowing to jungle royalty in a show of respect. Little did I know, my uncle had other plans and had made a move for the chainsaw still sputtering on the ground, feeling the need, no doubt, to protect me.
She moved with a speed that was fluid and quick and met my uncle face-to-face as he bent for the chainsaw. Her teeth sank into the back of his neck, snapping his vertebra cleanly, effortlessly, before I could even register a plea for her to stop.
My uncle collapsed, blood welling from the twin punctures. He stared at me as the life drained from his eyes.
“You didn’t have to kill him!” I said.
She turned toward me and I saw the first of her tears, and an expression not of remorse, but of sorrow upon her feline features. I understood then that she was merely meting out punishment for sins committed against Nature. And I’m sure my uncle was not innocent of those crimes. But knowing this did not ease the devastation I felt.
“Uncle Luis,” I cried, sobbing. I grew angry. I stared at her. “Go ahead!” I shouted. “Take me.”
She approached me then and I closed my eyes. I felt my life condense into a singular moment. I had always tried to do what was right, what was best for those around me. My family. My friends. The people I touched. Even strangers. I believed that if I died now, I was at peace with how I had lived my life. And I had my Uncle Luis to thank for it. And my father, a principled man who gave his last breath to stand up for what he believed in.
I felt her panting within inches of my face; her whiskers tickled my skin. Her breath smelled of fresh meat. It was as if she were tasting my thoughts with her tongue. She moved behind me and the next thing I felt was an excruciating pain as she sank her claws into my back, dragging them from shoulder blade to tailbone. The feeling was both searing and cold. A numbness crept into my lower extremities as my face hit the mud.
***
She stayed with us till morning. At times, I could hear her purring, melodic and soothing, the way a mother bird might sing a sad song before nudging one of her malformed children out of the nest. She sang until the jungle awoke with its loud, piercing symphony of noise, the endangered voices of its collective inhabitants. She stayed until the sunlight began to filter through the broad leaves, until the mist began to depart like the figures of an untold army.
She has left me paralyzed for my indiscretion, but I have faith that someone will find me, as is her intent. I will live long, she whispered, not in words but in an expression of thought as elemental as air or water, before leaving me with my pain and remorse. For this, I am grateful.
I will live long, she said, as long as I continue to tell this story.
