| Subject: Chapter 4 |
Author:
Juli
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Date Posted: Tuesday, July 06, 12:34:40am
In reply to:
Juli
's message, "Angelita" on Friday, May 21, 10:47:26pm
Chapter 4
It had been two days before he saw her. Eating what he could find and drinking from his canteen, Michael had stayed near the village where he could watch the comings and goings of the villagers.
On the morning of the second day, Michael glanced up from his watch to see a beautiful woman with long blonde hair step from one of the huts. She carried a basket, and leaned down to kiss one of the village children on the cheek. Surprised to actually see her, Michael stared at her long legs, left mostly bare by the coarse, native dress she wore. He skinned was darkly tanned, though it was glaringly obvious that she was not a native. She wore her hair slicked back with some sort of mud like the other village women, but it did nothing to hide the bright, wheat color of her locks.
Setting down his pack to move more noiselessly, Michael paralleled her course through the jungle, keeping track of her movements. In a clearing, she stopped to gather roots, and Michael stepped from the trees.
The woman looked up and dropped her basket, frightened. She began to back up, looking around her nervously.
“Don’t be afraid,” Michael said quietly in Spanish. “I won’t hurt you.”
The woman did not seem convinced. She looked ready to bolt at any minute.
“Wait. Please let me talk to you,” he tried again.
She continued to move backwards toward the cover of the jungle.
Michael stared at her for a moment. Finally getting a good look at her face. He realized that this woman was young, perhaps only 17 or 18.
“You’re not Rita,” Michael muttered in English, his hopes deflating.
The girl’s eyes widened, and she stopped retreating.
“No,” she said, drawing Michael’s astonished eyes to her face. “Rita was … my mother.”
Michael consciously shut his gaping mouth. She spoke to him in halting English with an Australian accent. Michael remembered that Mrs. Wirth had come from Australia before marrying Nick.
Regaining his composure, Michael looked the woman up and down. There was not a single trace of native Bolivian in her appearance. Astonished, he made the connection. This had to be Wirth’s daughter. Rita must have been pregnant when the attack occurred.
“How old are you?” he said, finding his voice.
“Twenty … soon,” she said, her low voice washing over him.
It seemed strange to hear English here, in the Amazon jungle, even though she seemed to be struggling a bit with the language. Michael had to fight not let his amazement show. This was Wirth’s heir; his daughter.
“Why… you look for my mother?” the girl asked, bending down to pick up her basket. She moved to stand closer to Michael now.
Seeing her closer only drove home the fact that she was Wirth’s daughter. She was tall, almost as tall as Michael, and her features were most definitely a very feminine version of Nicholas Wirth.
“What’s your name?” he asked, not answering her question.
“Nikita,” she replied.
“Ni-kit-a,” Michael breathed. “A perfect combination of Nick and Rita,” he thought to himself. He shook his head, trying to make sense of everything.
Why would Rita have stayed in the jungle when Nick had searched for her for months? If she had found haven among this tribe, why hadn’t they helped her to reach La Paz or one of the other cities?
He returned his gaze to Nikita’s face. “Your father heard of a white woman living here in the Amazon, and he thought is was your mother. He sent me to find her,” he explained.
“My father … dead,” she replied, her brow drawn in confusion. “How could …”
Michael interrupted. “You said ‘was’ – when you first spoke, you said Rita was your mother?”
Nikita nodded. “Yes, she died… years,” Nikita told him.
Years in the jungle, with a child? Michael couldn’t imagine it.
Nikita must have sensed his confusion. She put out her hand. “Come, we going to the village and to speak with father. He helps me tell you,” she said, beckoning.
Still reeling from the information he had gained, Michael followed mutely. He watched her lithe form as she made her way back along a well-worn path toward the village. Her figure was graceful, athletic. He felt a pull to her; it surprised him. She looked back at that moment, her blue eyes meeting his.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Michael sensed that there was trouble. Again, children ran into the village to announce their arrival. He knew that the headman had lied to protect this girl. But now he wondered why. He realized that she was obviously a protected member of the village. As they neared the center of the village, he knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer to have his questions answered.
The headman stood tall and glaring at the front of a large crowd of curious villagers. His icy stare pinned Michael, but was quickly melted when Nikita ran forward to embrace him.
Michael once again watched in amazement as Nikita rapidly, in Spanish, explained their meeting to the chief. The chief was Nikita’s “papa.”
Nikita turned back to Michael. “Come, we sit in papa house. Talk about Rita,” she said, her English broken, but still improving.
Michael nodded and followed the girl and the man she called papa to a large hut off the central meeting area.
Ducking under the low doorway, Michael’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Nikita and the headman both sat crosslegged on a mat. Michael joined them.
“Name?” Nikita asked, pointing at Michael.
“We can speak in Spanish if it is easier for you,” Michael told her in Spanish.
Nikita shook her head. “It is long time since English. I need practice.
Michael nodded, surprised at how fast her English was returning.
Nikita asked again. “Your name?”
“You can call me Michael,” he answered.
“My papa is Tunapa,” she replied, motioning to the tribal chief.
“Your papa?” Michael asked, looking at the native.
Tunapa sighed and turned to Michael. His deep voice echoed through the hut as he began the story in Spanish.
“Nikita’s mother, Rita, was very sick when she reached our village. The soldiers had attacked their boat. She had escaped from the river into the jungle, and had wandered in the jungle for two days. When she reached our village, she was near death. Our medicine woman nursed her back to health. It took her many weeks to recover.
“When Rita was strong again, we returned to the boat. There were the remains of the bodies. Rita found her husband’s body. She was inconsolable…”
“Wait,” Michael interrupted. “How did she know it was her husband?”
“The… body, it wore her husband’s jacket. Her husband was tall, the other bodies were not tall,” Tunapa explained.
“I see,” Michael said, his brow furrowed. It answered his question as to why Rita had not returned to civilization, but the answer to whose body it was would have to wait until he could talk to Nicholas Wirth.
Tunapa continued the tale. “Rita stayed in our village for a time. She was very sad. She knew that she carried Nikita in her belly. She lived only for the child. I … was a young man then. We were friends, and later fell in love,” the chief said sadly.
“Nikita was born during the monsoon, a ray of sunshine in the rains. She was so fair and light, the people nicknamed her Angelita. Our little angel. Rita and I became mates. I became father to Nikita. Rita taught Nikita English and she learned my native tongue and the ways of our village. Rita told Nikita of all the things of the life she left behind. As Nikita grew, she learned the ways of our healer and became one herself.
“What happened to Rita?” Michael asked, intrigued by the unbelievable tale.
Nikita took over the story. “My mother, when I was …” she turned to Tunapa for help.
“Trece,” her ‘father’ told her.
Nikita’s head bobbed and she bit her lower lip as she counted in her head.
“Thirteen,” she finally said. “My mother was bite by a snake when I am thirteen. She died.”
Nikita’s head bowed at the memory, and Tunapa continued.
“Rita was terrified of snakes. She was bitten by a green snake. Nikita and Manana, our healer, tried to save her, but she did not make it. Nikita stayed at the village. I had hoped she would find one of our men, or someone from one of the neighboring villages with whom to make a life, but this has not happened. I was always afraid that someday, someone would come and take my Angelita from me,” Tunapa concluded sadly.
Michael looked at Nikita and saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“What do you want?” Michael asked her in English.
Nikita looked at the stranger for a long moment. “You say that my ... father is alive?” she asked.
Michael nodded.
“You are sure?” she said, nervously twiddling her hair.
Michael nodded again. “You look like him,” he assured her.
Nikita’s eyes met her Tunapa’s. She searched the face that she had always known as “papa.” Michael stood.
“I’ll leave you alone to discuss it,” he said in Spanish.
When they were alone, Nikita threw herself into the older man’s arms. “What should I do, Papa?” she asked.
“You must follow your heart, Angelita,” he counseled, his own heart heavy.
Nikita sat back on her heels. Her mother had told her stories of her former life. Nikita had dreamed of airplanes, and cars, and fine silk gowns, and parties and dancing. Now this man, Michael, had come to take her to that world. Excitement filled her along with the fear and dread of leaving her small village – the only place she had ever known.
Tunapa stood and kissed the top of Nikita’s head. “I will leave you to decide,” he told her, stepping from the hut.
Outside, Tunapa joined Michael.
“My daughter will give you her decision shortly, but I know her heart. I believe she will go with you. Will you give me your word that you will watch over her; protect her? She is completely innocent to the ways of your world. There will be those who will try to take advantage of her innocence,” Tunapa asked him.
Michael studied the older man, his respect growing. He knew that Tunapa was right. Nikita was the heir to Wirth’s fortune. She was also young and beautiful. The press alone would have a heyday with the story of her return. Men would flock to her, and she would be completely inexperienced to their intentions.
He nodded solemnly, realizing that this “wild goose chase” would become much more. “I give you my word,” he promised.
Tunapa nodded and placed a grateful hand on Michael’s shoulder. Their eyes were drawn to the hut as Nikita’s blonde head ducked under the doorway.
“I will go,” she said, looking at Michael.
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