One Grave Less

into escorting us the whole way?”
    She continued to drive at a slow rate, hoping the kid wouldn’t slide off the hood. In a few minutes the jungle opened up to a small clearing with long grass huts one after the other. Many more villagers wandered near, peering at them, chatting to one another, and pointing. In the distance, on the other side of the clearing, Maria saw a man, a Westerner in his looks, cut-offs and blond hair, but native in body paint.
    “Don’t forget our story,” whispered Rosetta.
    “I won’t, but we may have to alter it slightly. The guy looks vaguely familiar. If he’s an anthropologist, I may have to use my real name. Full-time anthropologists are a small community and we tend to run across one another at professional meetings.”
    “You think you might know him?” said Rosetta.
    “Possibly met him,” answered Maria.
    “That’s good, isn’t it? He’ll like you,” said Rosetta.
    “Perhaps. Unless he’s a postmodernist; then we may be in trouble. I may have had some harsh things to say about their approach to research.” Maria smiled. “We’ll see.” She paused as she watched the man come across the compound. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll attach Maria to my real name, so we can at least be consistent.”
    “Okay, but don’t tell him where we are really going,” said Rosetta.
    Rosetta had slipped from being a kid and into her shrewd, precocious adult mode—which she did when putting one of her plans into action was called for, and it was kind of scary. Maria went along. The kid was smart and had good survival instincts.
    “Lock your door and slide over to me,” said Maria.
    Rosetta did as she was told. Maria placed her gun in the back waistband of her jeans. She was getting as paranoid as the little girl. She turned off the truck and pocketed the key. She opened the door slightly, pushed the lock on, put an arm around Rosetta, and pulled her out with her. Holding Rosetta on her hip, she closed the door. Rosetta put her arms around Maria’s neck. Maria didn’t want to get separated from her.
    The man wore leather sandals, faded blue cutoffs, and had a large red stripe painted around the middle of his body. If he was an anthropologist, it looked like he may have gone native. But perhaps he was simply in the role the villagers had put him in.
    The villagers were chatting among themselves and occasionally shouting to the two newcomers in their midst.
    “I sort of know the language,” Rosetta whispered in her ear. “A little.”
    “What are they saying?” Maria whispered.
    “I think they are asking if we’ve come to look at them,” said Rosetta.
    Perhaps they think I’m another anthropologist come to study them , Maria thought, Or a doctor!
    “Speak only English,” whispered Maria. “I don’t want him to think I’m stealing you.”
    “Okay,” Rosetta said.
    Maria scanned the compound as she waited for the man to reach them. The space consisted of three long structures with brown-gray grass roofs that looked like grassy tents thrown over a central beam. The jungle encroached almost up to the structures themselves. The largest part of the clearing was the one they were standing in at the moment. So far, the people looked friendly. Several of them were now in the back of the truck.
    “We don’t get too many visitors,” said the man as he approached somewhat warily. He didn’t seem like he was too happy with visitors now.
    He was older than he had appeared at a distance. He was probably well into his forties. She had thought him a good deal younger.
    “I don’t imagine you do,” said Maria. “Are you an anthropologist, doctor, missionary?” Her voice was still raw and it came out sounding like she’d had too many cigarettes and too much whiskey.
    “Anthropologist. How did you get here?”
    With great difficulty , thought Maria. He didn’t give her his name, so she didn’t feel the need to give hers, at least not her real name. She studied his face for a moment. She didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar about him. She must have run across him at some point, probably at a professional meeting.
    “My daughter and I were attacked while we were visiting some of the archaeological sites.” She pulled down her scarf to reveal her still-bruised throat. “We managed to get away, and we are trying to get to Manaus to meet up with people looking for us.”
    He wrinkled his brow as he looked at her throat. “Who attacked you?” he