"James Rollins - Amazonia" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

its south face. The missionaries' residence was the only home with a gas generator. It powered the
church's lights, a refrigerator, and the village's only air conditioner. Sometimes Garcia wondered if the
success of his mission was not based solely on the wonders of the church's cool interior, rather than any
heartfelt belief in salvation through Christ.

Once they reached the residence, Henaowe ducked forward and yanked the rear door open. They
manhandled the stranger through the dining room to a back room. It was one of the domiciles of the
mission's acolytes, but it was now unoccupied. Two days ago, the younger missionaries had all lefton an
evangelical journey to a neighboring village. The small room was little more than a dark cell, but it was at
least cool and sheltered from the sun.

Garcia nodded for Henaowe to light the room's lantern. They had not bothered to run the electricity to
the smaller rooms. Cockroaches and spiders skittered from the flame's glow.

Together they hauled the man to the single bed. "Help me get him out of his clothes. I must clean and
treat his wounds:"

Henaowe nodded and reached for the buttons to the man's pants, then froze. A gasp escaped the
Indian. He jumped back as if from a scorpion.

"Weti kete?"Garcia asked. "What is it?"

Henaowe's eyes had grown huge with horror. He pointed to the man's bare chest and spoke rapidly in
his native tongue.

Garcia's brow wrinkled. "What about the tattoo?" The blue and red dyes were mostly geometric shapes:
crimson circles, vibrant squiggles, and jagged triangles. But in the center and radiating out was a
serpentine spiral of red, like blood swirling down a drain. A single blue handprint lay at its center, just
above the man's navel.

"Shawara!" Henaowe exclaimed, backing toward the door.

Evil spirits.

Garcia glanced back to his assistant. He had thought the tribesman had grown past these superstitious
beliefs. "Enough," he said harshly. "It's only paint. It's not the devil's work. Now come help me:"

Henaowe merely shook in terror and would approach no closer.

Frowning, Garcia returned his attention to his patient as the man groaned. His eyes were glassy with
fever and delirium. He thrashed weakly on the sheets. Garcia checked the man's forehead. It burned. He
swung back to Henaowe. "At least fetch the first-aid kit for me and the penicillin in the fridge:"

With clear relief, the Indian dashed away.

Garcia sighed. Having lived in the Amazonian rain forest for a decade, he had out of necessity learned
basic medical skills: setting splints, cleaning and applying salves to wounds, treating fevers. He could even
perform simple operations, like suturing wounds and helping with difficult births. As the padre of the
mission, he was not only the primary guardian of their souls, but also counselor, chief, and doctor.