Naamah's Blessing

mention the additional burden our numbers placed on their stores, I made it a point to contribute every day with a gift of fish or game. Thanks to the narrow hunting trails that laced the usually impenetrable jungle, I was able to procure several more of the tasty ground-fowl over the course of our stay.
    Bitterness notwithstanding, the
cinchona
bark proved an effective cure. Within three days in the village, all the afflicted men’s fevers broke. There was no more incessant shivering, and the whites of Balthasar’s eyes began to clear, their uncanny yellow hue fading.
    And for another mercy, we were able to determine that an earlier company of white-faced strangers had passed this way. It seemed they were reckoned bad spirits from the black river, something that remained a mystery. Despite having referenced it upon our initial meeting, Paullu was reluctant to discuss the black river.
    “It is bad,” he said stubbornly. “Bad luck!” He shook his head vigorously. “You are good spirits, but you are no match for it. No one is. I should never have spoken of it. You should not go there. No one should go there anymore.”
    “Where?” I asked, pointing downriver. “Vilcabamba?”
    Paullu flinched. “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    He would not say. No one would. Only that it was a very bad thing, and to speak of it was to risk summoning it.
    “It must have been a flood,” Eyahue determined. “Farther into Tawantinsuyo, in the highlands, the rivers that flow down from the mountains sometimes run black with silt.” He nodded at the narrowriver that ran past the village, making its way to the big river. “I bet it flooded the day your prince passed through and turned black, maybe swept away a few people.” He chuckled. “You know how superstitious these jungle folk can be.”
    I eyed him, thinking of the racks of skulls in the
tzompantli
. “I don’t see any signs of a major flood here.”
    He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. The jungle grows back fast.”
    Whatever the truth, we got no more out of Paullu and the villagers. The mystery of the black river remained unsolved.
    By the end of the third day, it was obvious that Balthasar and Jean and the others would be well enough to travel. Septimus Rousse reported that the replacement canoe was ready to launch. Since the beads had proved so popular among the villagers, Eyahue managed to barter several more strands for a renewed supply of sweet potatoes.
    “We must have a feast before you go,” Paullu announced. “You are good spirits, but you are weak. You will help our women prepare
masato
to give you strength.”
    I smiled at him. “You are kind.”
    Eyahue translated my words, and Paullu’s face took on a serious expression. Reaching for my hand, he pressed it between his callused palms. “You do not know what you face. I tell you once more, you should not go to Vilcabamba.”
    My
diadh-anam
flared in protest. “I have to,” I said simply.
    Atoc, the village shaman, spoke. He was a cryptic fellow of indeterminate years, his dark eyes old and wise in his unlined face.
    “He says you speak the truth,” Eyahue reported in a somber tone. “And he will ask the spirits of the forest to bless you.”
    “
Sulpayki
, Atoc,” I murmured, thanking him.
    The shaman bent his head toward me.
“Imamanta.”
    “
Masato
will give you strength,” Paullu repeated. “We will have a great feast in your honor.
    I wondered what
masato
was and soon found out, somewhat to my dismay. It was a fermented beverage made by boiling and mashingmanioc root, which was then chewed and spat into a large wooden tub, repeating the process over and over; a village endeavor undertaken collectively by all the women, one in which I was expected to participate.
    Balthasar was horrified. “I think I’d rather eat grubs.”
    I had to own, the first warm, grainy mouthful made my stomach churn, but the village women were laughing and jesting, enjoying the communal nature of the process. Paullu’s wife, Sarpay, pointed at Balthasar and made a suggestion that had all of them giggling.
    “She says that since you are as pretty as a girl, you should help prepare the
masato
,” Eyahue informed Balthasar.
    The latter fixed the old man with a death glare, which only made the women laugh harder.
    Water was poured over the macerated manioc, and the resulting liquid was left in the hot sun to ferment for long hours. Paullu and his men returned from hunting with great fanfare, having trapped and