Chapter Text
The ropes bit into Blair’s wrists as he was herded along through the rainforest. The natives that surrounded them on all sides were armed with bows and blow darts. Blair didn’t want to test out the theory that the locals used poison, so he hurried along with the others of his group. This was not how he’d expected his trip to Peru to go. A prestigious conference, a few days to visit the local museums, another few at an archaeological site and then a quick trip by helicopter back to the city for the flight home.
They just hadn’t planned on being shot down by guerrillas. Trying to get away from them after the crash, they’d ended up running straight into a group of the indigenous people, who didn’t seem too happy to have company. Which was how Blair had ended up a prisoner, along with three others from the university and their nervous pilot.
Blair would have spent this time studying their guards, trying to learn what he could as quickly as possible, but it was made difficult by the pilot babbling along.
“We should have tried to fight rather than letting them take us back to stick in a stew pot.”
“There’s no evidence that the indigenous people are cannibals,” said Professor Carlson, the leader of this messed up expedition.
“Besides, humans taste better roasted than stewed,” put in Ashley, the archaeologist in the group. If Blair’s hands weren’t tied, he might have slapped the guy. Ashley had been making stupid jokes for the whole trip and right now Blair was as keen as their pilot to hear comments about how he might get cooked.
The other member of their group was Malcolm, the political science representative, muttering under his breath that he didn’t want to die. Supposedly, they’d been among the university’s best and brightest, representing Rainier at the conference. Blair was now secretly wondering if the Chancellor had been hoping they’d get shot down by guerrillas so that she could be rid of them all. Blair considered himself an easy-going guy, but after spending nearly two weeks in their company, he’d be happy to never see any of them again.
“They probably just want to make certain we’re not a threat to the tribe,” Blair said.
“And how do we do that when no one speaks mumbo jumbo?” asked Adrian, the pilot.
“Communication can be established through different means,” Blair said. “Drawings. Mime. Plus, I know a few words of some of the tribal dialects. I’ve done some reading into the mythology of the region. There are some fascinating-“
“I don’t give a damn about mythology!” said Adrian. “I want to know if you can tell these primitives to let us go or help us find a radio.”
“Maybe. Given enough time.”
“Well isn’t that great.”
“The university will know we’re missing,” said Malcolm. “Right? They’ll send someone to look for us. Won’t they?”
In different circumstances, Blair would have loved to be a guest of one of the local tribes, in the heart of the land where the Sentinel mythology had sprung from. He would have been thrilled to learn about their ways and, more importantly, to see if any of them displayed the heightened senses that the stories talked about. He could actually have a chance to see if the myths were something more than that. But he’d had liked to do it as part of a planned expedition with colleagues he could actually stand.
Their captors herded them into a village built around a large clearing. Wooden huts were constructed in the shelter of the larger trees, with an open space for fire pits and cooking. There was also a cage in the middle of the clearing. It was made of a series of wooden posts, each as thick as Blair’s arm, driven deep into the ground. The cage was perhaps five metres across and currently empty, just an expanse of hard soil within the circle of posts. There was a gap between two of the posts, through which Blair and the others were gently shoved. Then one of the locals, a tall man in little more than a loincloth and a lot of body paint, placed a latticework of smaller branches over the gap and tied it into place.
It was hardly a high security prison. Blair could probably kick down that latticework, but the locals were still there on the other side of the bars, armed and watching.
Another man approached the cage. He was dressed much the same at the others. He had feathers woven into his long hair and a symbol that looked like some sort of bird painted across his chest. He spoke to those who had captured the little group. Blair listened carefully, but was only able to make out a few words: forest, warriors. There were a few more words that sounded familiar, but nothing that he could string together into any sort of sense.
“Go on, Sandburg, say something,” said Adrian.
Blair dredged his memory, calling up what he hoped was a negative and the word for warriors. The new arrival looked at him and then said something too quickly for Blair to catch.
“I don’t understand,” Blair said.
The local considered, looked at the guards, and then spoke again, slower this time, each word deliberately formed. It was something about danger, warriors and the tribe. Blair didn’t completely follow. He tried simply saying the word he hoped meant friend. He hoped that this guy understood what Blair was trying to say.
The man beckoned Blair to come stand by the bars. Blair did so, thinking that any sign of cooperation here had to be a good thing. The man looked at him for a long time, staring into Blair’s eyes. Then the guy drew a bone knife.
Blair started to take a step back, the others in the group yelling out in protest, but the guard reached through the bars to grab Blair’s arm. He gently but firmly hauled Blair back to the bars and turned him round.
The knife sliced through the ropes at his wrists. Blair drew a slightly shaking breath. For a second there, he’d thought he was about to die. Instead, he turned back to face the man with the bird on his chest and smiled.
“Thank you.” If the words weren’t understood, the sentiment was. The man nodded and then turned to walk away. The guard folded his arms and kept watch.
Blair rubbed some life into his sore wrists and turned to his companions, who were still bound. He didn’t have anything to cut with, so he had to work the knots loose.
***
Jim Ellison, known as Enqueri to the Chopec tribe, walked back to the village with his kill over his shoulder. He preferred hunting alone, listening for the sounds of the animals, spotting them from the distance without having to explain it to anyone else and risk frightening off his quarry. Incacha didn’t like it. He insisted that Jim should have a guide with him, but Jim could always slip away.
As he returned to the village, he knew something was different. Different scents in the air, different voices on the wind. One of the Chopec warriors greeted him at the edge of the village, saying that Incacha needed to speak to him. Jim handed over his kill to be prepared for the evening meal and he went to Incacha’s hut. As he walked through the trees, he caught strains of English coming from the main clearing.
“No one has hurt us yet and the fact that they let us undo the ropes is a good sign.”
“The fact that they’ve got us in a cage is a bad one.”
“There’s no need to panic,” said the first voice.
“I’m not panicking,” said another. “I just don’t like the way that guy keeps looking at me.” This voice rose slightly in volume, “What the hell are you looking at you damn, primitive faggot?”
“I think you should apologise,” the first voice, calm and reasonable.
“What the hell for? It’s not like this backwards bastards can understand a word we’re saying.”
“I’m sure they understand the sentiment and you insulting them isn’t going to help us get out of here.”
Jim reached Incacha’s hut and pushed aside the skin which covered the doorway. Incacha was inside, sitting cross-legged on a rush mat. He had a series of wooden bowls in front of him and was grinding a mixture of herbs into one of them.
When Jim spoke, it was in Quechua, the language of the Chopec tribe.
“We have prisoners?” he asked.
“There metal bird crashed in the forest. We need to know if they work with the enemy.”
“Do you want me to talk to them?”
“No,” Incacha said, “I want you to listen. Their words may lie, but not if they think we do not understand them.”
“I understand. I listen as they talk to one another. I learn who they are.”
Incacha nodded. He returned his attention to the bowls, taking a small sprinkling of powder from one and adding it to the mixture in the central bowl.
“What is that?” Jim asked.
“It is for the Shaman.”
Jim took that as meaning it was something he wasn’t supposed to know about. He left Incacha to his work. Shaman rituals were a mixture of mystery and mysticism that Jim didn’t fully understand and wasn’t supposed to. He left the hut and walked towards the clearing, finding himself a sheltered place in the shadows of a great tree. He had a clear view of the cage but knew it would be difficult for them to see him unless they had Sentinel sight. Jim sat on the ground and surveyed the group in the cage.
There were five men, the oldest probably no more than forty. All white. They didn’t look like guerrillas. They didn’t look like US soldiers either. Jim, along with the locals, had been holding the Chopec pass for a little over a year now and there had been a lot of fighting in the area. When Incacha had mentioned a downed aircraft, Jim had hopes that it would include his replacements. But the group in civilian dress were clearly not soldiers. The oldest of them was a little overweight and one of the younger ones had a mass of curly hair down to his shoulders.
One of the others, a tall, wiry guy, was complaining loudly about being thirsty and wishing that the, “Fucking heathen bastards,” would give him something to drink.
“We’re all thirsty,” said the long haired guy, “but shouting and throwing around insults isn’t going to get us anywhere.”
“It’s not like these primitives understand.”
“I understand and I’m sick of hearing it. If you can’t say something polite, shut up.”
Jim grinned. The long-haired guy was almost a foot shorter than the other, but he didn’t seem at all intimidated. Jim found himself almost liking the guy.
“Sandburg’s right,” said the older man. “We should be trying to communicate in a calm and civilised manner.”
“Civilised,” snorted Mr Politeness.
Jim listened a while longer. The only thing he’d picked up was that the long-haired guy was called Sandburg and that the guy he’d mentally dubbed Mr Politeness was a serious prick. Jim did think it might be easier to go up to them and just ask who they were, but Incacha was the tribe’s Shaman and that meant Jim should listen to him.
Inside the cage, one of them, a scrawny kid who was nervously fidgeting constantly, was asking if the tribe was planning on starving them. Jim decided to show them some pity. He gave a low whisper and waved over one of the tribeswomen, telling her to take some water to the group in the cage. He specifically pointed out Mr Politeness and told her not to give him any of the water. He wasn’t going to die of thirst for a while yet and it might help get the point across that his companion was trying to make.
Jim watched the woman take a bucket of water and a drinking bowl over to the cage. She offered the bowl one at a time to the occupants, who drank gladly. Then she turned and walked away before Mr Politeness could take his turn.
“Hey! Bitch! Get back here! Give me some of the fucking water!”
“Maybe she doesn’t like being called a bitch,” suggested Sandburg cheerfully.
“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you, Sandburg? Well you focus that brain of yours on getting us out of here.”
“Well, I think it’s highly unlikely that they’d have gone through all this simply to kill us. My guess is that they just don’t know what to make of us.”
“Soup?” suggested the other of the group, with a grin at Mr Fidget who turned a shade paler.
“Thank you, Ashley,” said Blair. “They’re not going to eat us. I think if we can demonstrate that we’re not a threat to them, they’ll probably let us go.”
“Sandburg’s right,” said the older guy. “If we can show politeness and cooperation, then they’ll have no reason to hurt us. Meanwhile, the university will know something’s gone wrong and send someone after us.”
So Jim had his answer. They were from a university. Looking at them, he was more willing to believe them a group of lost nerds than insurgents. He listened a while longer, while the night started to fall over the jungle. The tribeswomen prepared food, a mixture of meat and root vegetables, at the cooking fires and Jim watched one of them take a portion to the group in the cage. Mr Politeness grabbed some first, determined not to be left out this time. Everything he’d heard had Jim convinced that these really were a group from a university, here entirely by accident.
Incacha came up to where Jim sat and asked for his findings.
“They did not mean to be here,” Jim said. “They are not warriors. They are of a group that seeks knowledge. I don’t think they mean any harm to the tribe.”
“Good. I am glad they are not enemies. Still, it would probably be unsafe for them to have free range of the village.”
“Some of them, perhaps, should be watched.” Jim said.
“But some should not?” Incacha was smiling in his most irritating manner, as though he knew something Jim didn’t.
“One of them, the long-haired one, speaks of respect.”
Incacha smiled again.
“For tonight, they can remain where they are,” he said. “Sleep, Enqueri. Others will keep watch tonight. You will need your sleep tomorrow.”
Jim knew better than to ask what he meant by that. He never knew what was going on inside Incacha’s head half the time. Jim just grabbed some food from the cooking fires and went to his own hut, a small and flimsy construction on the outskirts of the village. It was tradition that warriors built their own huts to show that they were men. Jim had built this after a few days with the tribe and its lopsided structure showed his lack of experience with the activity. The men of the tribe had laughed but the hut had stood and it still stood a year later. He lay down on his sleeping mat and shuffled inside a standard issue sleeping bag that was one of the few bits of supply he still had.
Even here, he could hear the conversations happening inside the cage. Jim drifted off to sleep, listening to Sandburg talk about the cultural significance of the shared meal.