Future Writer Chapter 8 (13 pages)

Chapter 8

"That was your husband shooting at us?" I asked in a revealing tone.

"Yes.... I'm so sorry. I do hope you're not angry with me."

I sat on one of the dismembered wings of the aircraft. The lime green coloring makes it blend in with the rest of the jungle. I couldn't make sense of the chain of events that seemed to come out of the ledger. In fact, after the close calls that we just had, I was afraid to write the rest of the story. Who was I kidding?  Alexia is twenty eight years old. She had been alive long before I started writing in the ledger. This is bizarre.

"... I'll bet he was responsible," Alexia continues, "for the crash. He is, you know? Not very good man, and he found me,.. my job, then somehow arranged for airplane to crash."

"You're talking non-sense now," I told her. "The plane went down from severe weather conditions. I'm sure your husband, as controlling as he is, doesn't have control over that."

"How do you know he didn't shoot us down, and the storm was just coincidence?"

Something she said stuck in my mind, "coincidence". Could all of the events just be a wild string of coincidences? I've often heard that people believe all things happen for a reason. This philosophy is based on the idea that without one event, all events behind that one would not happen. Some people say that it is God’s will that allows all things to happen. This also falls into the philosophy that all things happen for a reason. Others will say that philosophy is just a crutch for misfortune. Whatever the case, Clancy, as fictitious as he

may be, is writing my future pretty closely.

Alexia continues, "... dead, is it."

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" I asked her.

"Sometimes I wish....  I shouldn't say it... well... If he were to face some of the people he deals with, he would be dead... and not bother me."

“Listen," I told her, "He was shooting at us, you in particular. I believe there are only two justifications for death, one: for food, and two: to remove any threats of harm. Those, in my opinion, falls in the category of survival. I hold that philosophy for all living things from bugs to humans. If he is a threat to your life, by all means, wishing death upon him is justified."

"If he were dead..." I thought to myself, "I could write him as being found dead."

Who was I to play God in this way? ...

"Would this make me a murderer?" I asked myself.

Then I found justification... "He is a threat to our survival, and all I'm doing is writing one of my characters as being found dead. It's not like I'm pulling the trigger on a real person. If through my pen, Clancy created this character, then to remove him is at my liberty."

With that thought in mind we began walking towards the bluff of the mountain to meet with the others. While walking through the dense vegetation, I thought of many ways in which to write him dead. Regardless of how much he deserved it, a torturous death was not in my justification. Just having him removed was good enough for me.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of heavy thumps on the ground.

"What was that?" she asked me.

"I don't have a clue," I told her.

We quietly listened and heard nothing.

"Perhaps it was a falling limb from a tree," she suggested.

"Possibly."

I couldn't help but have the feeling that we were being watched. Slowly we began walking. We didn't hear anything else so we blew it off as being a fallen tree limb. I continued thinking of ways to have the husband killed. I remembered Alexia saying that if he could face the people he deals with they would kill him. From a perspective of an author, that is too forward. A death needs mystery to give the reader the chance to figure out, 'Who done it'. That made me think of the board game 'Clue'. In the game, a person is dead and it is the

object of each player to figure out 'Who done it'.  If he is to die, I need to leave it to the reader to determine, WHO committed the crime, WHAT the crime was committed with, and WHERE it was done. I now had a plan.

"THUD!... Rattle... Rattle..."

We stopped in our tracks to the sound of something large moving in the jungle.

Neither of us said a word. We were both frozen in fear that a leopard may be stalking us, or worse yet, her husband. We still had the strange feeling of being watched,... but from where? Slowly we looked around. We saw nothing unusual.

We continued walking very cautiously up the side of the mountain.  We were so paranoid that when one of us stepped on a twig the other person would spin around in fear.

"We're almost to the top," I whispered.

Through the trees we could see the other members in our group waiting in the clearing. We felt relieved to see them in that there is security in numbers.

The larger group we were, the more power we had to defend ourselves. As we came closer to the clearing we could see that they were spooked by the sounds of our approach.

"It's us," I yelled, "Sam and Alexia."

"Did you reach them in time?" Greg asked.

"No," I said in a disappointing manner, "they flew off as we got there."

"I'm relieved that we're together," he said, "we've been hearing many

threatening sounds around us."

"You too?" Alexia added.

"I think we should get back to the plane," said Greg, "...at least there we could shelter ourselves from the animals."

We all looked to each other to see if there was anyone in disagreement. Slowly we re-entered the jungle. All the way back to the plane we heard the sounds of thumps hitting the ground. The bushes would rattle but when we looked nothing was there. Near twilight, we made it back to the plane. We were all glad to be

back. At least there we could set up a fire and run for the cover of the fuselage. Bob went to where they had seen the banana trees and brought back a large bundle of bananas. We ate so many bananas that we felt sick. On the other hand, it felt very comforting to have food once again. Our water supply had ran dry but that was not a problem. It rained so often that little pockets of water formed in the twisted metal from the wreckage.

Night fell upon the forest, and I, once again, took the midnight watch. The jungle had quieted down considerably with the coming of darkness. The larger animal seemed to be creatures of the daylight while only smaller animals were nocturnal. Sitting by the fire I decided to fill in the details of the events that I had not yet entered. As I wrote to the present I remembered that I was going to write Alexia's husband as being found dead. I was think that, for the

reader's sake, I should leave the cause of death a mystery. I had Clancy write that he was found in the jungle dead, period. This way the readers could make snap judgments as to the why, how, by whom, and with what he would die from.

Besides the death of the husband, I decided to not write into the future from that point on except that Alexia would get whatever she wished for. If she wished her husband dead, or if she wished for frozen turkeys to fall from the sky, then so be it. As in the past, four o'clock in the morning brought with it all the chirping and whistling birds that the jungle had to offer. Soon after that Marco was out to offer me company.

"Buenos Dias amigo," he told me.

"Good morning," I responded.

"What fortune does this day bring?" he said aloud without expecting an answer.

"I have no idea," I told him, knowing that I didn't write today in the ledger.

"Let's hope for the best."

"That sounds good to me."

The jungle began making all of the usual morning sounds. The morning sun glistening through the trees which sent sun beams through the underlying fog.

"That looks like a postcard," Marco said to me.

"It's too bad we can't bring a little bit of this home with us."

As the sun rose higher in the sky so rose the rest of the group. Nobody felt much like talking. We just sat around musing in our thoughts.

"What shall do today?" Alexia asked the group. "Do we wait to see if more searcher come or do dare leave the plane?"

"Tammy mentioned to the group in response, "If we leave the plane, we will be risking a reenactment of yesterday. If we stay here, however, we may be waiting for something that may never happen."

Bob adds, "If the searcher flew off thinking that we were dead they would not return. Why didn't they see the fire pit?"

John suggest, "Maybe they thought the burn mark was from the crash."

We sat there pondering in thought when Alexia said, "I wish someone would find us."

Something which she said stuck, and echoed, in my mind, "...I WISH, WISH, WISH..."

The last thing I wrote in the ledger was that I wanted Alexia to get her wish.

She wished that somebody would find us. We sat in silence as the fire softly crackled. We heard the thud of something in the bushes. We all looked in fear wondering what it was that stalked us. Then we heard it again from the opposite side of the plane.

"We better make for the plane," said Greg.

We turned to the plane and then we saw what has been stalking us. We froze in our tracks for we knew that one slip could mean death for one, if not all, of us. The bushes continued to rattle all around us. Alexia wished that we would be found and we were. Standing on the top of the plane, above the door, as if to attack were three, very angry looking, Yanomamo Indian warriors. They were pointing cocked arrows at each of us. From the bushes came more of them. They were probably angry with us about the death of their shaman (the mad chanter).

Although none of them looked familiar, we were safe to assume that they were from the same tribe.

Then one of the tribesmen spoke in broken Spanish, "Quien es el patron? [Who is your headman?]"

"He wants to know who the headman is," said Marco.

The pilot answered, "Tell him that I am the headman."

"El es el patron, [he is the headman]," Marco responded.

"Mato usted a Bntwanawan? [Did you kill Bantwanawan?]"

"He wants to know if we killed Bantanawan," said Marco.

"What is your husband’s name?" I whispered to Alexia.

"Ivan," she whispered back.

"Marco, tell him that Ivan, the hunter of man, shot him, and that he shot at us as well."

Marco answered, "A Bantwanawan lo mato Ivan, el cazador de hombres. El nos disparo a nosotros tambien."

"Vengas con nosotros [Come with us.]" said the Yanomamo translator.

"He wants us to follow him," Marco translates.

"I don't think we have a choice," I mentioned.

They jumped off the airplane and we submissively followed. We walked for quite a ways. Alexia whispered to me that they were going away from their compound.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she answered.

"Where could they be taking us?" I thought to myself. "And where did their translator pick up Spanish?"

After one half of a day's walk we came to a garden. This was a different garden than yesterday. This garden was much larger and much more fruitful.

The scene was just as at the other garden, only the men were loosening the ground with shovel rather than with sticks, while women followed with the seedlings. The garden was arranged in neatly planted rows where the other garden was planted in a more random fashion. Their compound was a direct walk from the garden. Just as before, they crowded around us as if we were the prey from their hunt. They didn't seem as in awe with the sight of a white man as the

other group did. Once into the compound we found out why. A sandy blonde haired/bearded, gentleman walked out from under the awning.

"Welcome to Patawan-terri," he told us, "There is a custom that you must do before you are accept by the tribe."

"What might that be?" Greg asked.

"You must strut your stuff, in a matter of speaking."

"You must what?" asked William Johnson.

"Make yourself look tough and intimidating... These people pride themselves on how fierce they can be... and it's not all show. They would just a soon kill you than let you live."

"How do we do that?" John asked.

"It only takes one of you. I would suggest you," he said as he pointed to me.

"Why me?" I asked.

"Well look at you. Your appearance alone is a demonstration of dominating masculinity... Just your size and bulk intimidates these guys. If you go out there as a representative of your group and prance around and look real mean, they'll most likely take you and your group as a their guest. If they don't accept you, they'll assume you to be an enemy in which case someone is bound to get killed."

"Are there any other options?" I asked.

"If you want their respect, you must earn it through a display of warfare. Hopefully you'll intimidate them then bow to their homage, they will take you in as their guest."

"Can't you do something?" Millie asked.

"I took an oath to not interfere. It's a political action and you've got the ball. What are you going to do with it? I wouldn't suggest running with it."

We looked as each other. Nobody wanted to tell me that I had to do it because it wasn't their place to say it. But I knew what I had to do.

Pointing to the women in the group I asked them if they had any make-up such as lipstick, eyeliner, etc.

Alexia said, "All I have is the lipstick that I'm wearing... Okay... Don't get any ideas."

She reached up and grabbed me by the hair just above my ears and pulled my head to her level. She began kissing me across the forehead, leaving a trail of Magenta Blush lipstick.

"I have some Ruby Red,"  Millie said as she pulled out a tube from her purse.

I striped down to my underwear revealing all that I had to offer. The members in the group began painting my body in an array of colors and patterns. This whole time I still had the backpack containing the ledger in my hands. The hooting and hollering was getting intense. Finally it was time to strut my stuff. I knew that I had to get vocal as well as visual, but what do I know that could hold their attention for any length of time. Then the idea struck me.

"Here goes nothing," I told the group.

I took off at full speed to the opposite side of the compound. Just before reaching the fiercest warrior in all of their tribe I skidded my feet to a halt sending a plumb of dust in the air. I didn't know that he was their headman. I plucked him up off the ground by his loin cloth until he was over the top of my head like an uncontrolled figure skater. I ran with him to the center of the compound then lowered him to his back on the ground. He began yelling at me ferociously. I yelled back to him the lyrics to 'Jonny B. Good.

"I came up from Alabama down from New Orleans. Lived back up in the wood among the evergreens.

Lived in a cabin made from earth and wood, Came a country boy named Jonny B.Good.

I said Go...... Go Jonny, Go...."

Because I had the rhythm of the song, he couldn't get a word in edgewise. Every time he tried to stand up I would kick his feet out from under him causing him to fall back on his buttocks.

"... Go.... Go Jonny Go.... Jonny B. Good....."

When the part came for the lead in the song I knew that I couldn't have empty vocals so I started screaming, "Go..Da da da da....Go..da.da.da.da. Go Jonny… Jonny B. Good."

I continued the song for at least three to four time over. While doing so, I pranced around the inside perimeter of the compound. One of the warrior ran up to me and pounded hard into my chest. Had he been as big as me, that hard of a blow would have knocked the wind out of me. In this case it just took me by surprise.

Immediately after pounding my chest, I kicked hard into the face causing him to fold to the ground. All of this I did without breaking the rhythm of the song.

As I came around to my group, I reached the end of the song.

"Da.. da da da, Jonny B. Good... YEA!!!!"

Those in our group were really fighting to hold back their laughter. Looking back on it, I suppose that it was pretty comical to see this brawny man politically running around in his underwear, singing Johnny B. Good. When it was over I looked to the blonde bearded gentleman. He gave he an approving nod.

The headman, by this time had worked his way back to the shelter of the awning. When the song was over, a deadly silence filled the compound. The headman walked out to the center of the compound carrying a pot of simmering banana/caterpillar soup, a bundle of arrows, and a small bushel of tobacco.

"He's waiting for you to accept his offering," the blonde man yelled to me.

I walked out the meet him. I had my back pack in my hand, which I had not put down since being here. I stopped and looked squarely into his eyes.

"Pick up the offering," yelled the blonde gentleman.

I picked up the offering and began walking backwards away from him. He started yelling at me.

"He's waiting for a counter offer," yelled the man.

I looked back to the group. The headman yelled some more.

"He wants what's in your bag... You know... The book sticking out of you backpack."

"He can't have it," I yelled.

"You will be committing political suicide if you don't," the man yelled.

"Would I be able to get it back?" I asked the man.

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Can this guy be negotiated?" I asked the man.

"Very much so," he answered.

With great hesitation, I handed him my ledger.

I took the offering back to the group where, with bare hands, we dove into the soup like crazy people. The caterpillar tasted like green tea. The banana paste was very bland but filling. The headman motioned for me to lay on his hammock where we carried on conversation with the help of Napoleon (the blonde man) who had been an anthropologist with this tribe for nearly twenty years.

We told him of or situation and he radioed for help over the two way radio.

Now all I had to do is get my ledger back.

"Napoleon," I said, "What do I have the do to get my book back?"

"Offer him something in exchange."

"I don't have anything to offer."

"He may take your belt buckle in exchange," Napoleon suggested.

I approached him and he offered his hammock. I handed him my belt and motioned that I will exchange it for the book. He handed back the belt and said a few things while motioning at Alexia. I looked at Napoleon.

"He wants to trade your woman."

"She's not mine to trade."

"Don't tell him that."

"What else can I do?"

Napoleon rose up from his hammock and walked over to the headman. He whispered something in his ear. I thought it odd that he would whisper because I didn't understand his language anyway. He suspiciously looked up to me, then said something back to Napoleon.

"Okay, I've worked out a deal," Napoleon said to me.

"A deal?"

"Yes. You will fight him in front of everybody and loose.... For this he gets your belt, the respect that you took from him, and you get your book.... And you must leave a coward."

"That's it?"

"I'm afraid it's a little more complex than that."

"How bad can it be? Tell him I'm do it," I told him.

Together the headman and I walked into the center of the compound. He motioned for me to put one of my arms over my head. He geared up like a pitcher throwing a fastball then threw his fist hard into my ribs. It made me roll into a ball on the ground. I quickly picked myself up. The crowd was roaring with excitement. He motioned for me to, once again, hold my arm over my head. Again and in the same spot he drilled his fist into my ribs. Like a fool for punishment I quickly jumped back to my feet.

"When do I get a turn?" I yelled to Napoleon.

"Part of being a tough warrior is not only how much you could dish out but how much you could take...."

"Whack!!" another blow to the ribs.

"I'd like to see how much he can take."

"He is the headman. He has already proven himself."

"How long do I have to take this?"

"If you can handle, say, ten......"

"Wack!!!"

"...blows, then you are pretty good."

"Should I fake the....."

"Whack!!!"

"Ahh... That hurt!!"

"He is beginning to get angry that you have held out....."

"Whack!!!!"

".... this long."

Suddenly he ran to the awning, and from one of the supports, he grabs a pole to us as a club. He ran at me while swinging wildly, I dove at him and rolled under his feet causing him to fall to the ground. He swung again and I dodged it. Before he could get up, I ran to the awning to get a club of my own. He ran after me while swinging hard. I blocked his swing with my newly found club. The crowd roared. As he swung I continued walking backward. Then as a clumsy clown, I fell backwards into the fire ring. I leaped out of the fire as the flames

singed off my hair. Before I could get to my feet he swung and hit solid to the back of my head. My face fell to the dirt. He lined up for another swing. I was too disoriented to defend myself. His club skimmed my head, and pain was all I could remember for the next three days.