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

Garcia removed the man's soiled clothes and set them aside. As his eyes roved over the man's
exposed skin, he could clearly see how sorely the unforgiving jungle had ravaged his body. Maggots
crawled in his deep wounds. Scaly fungal infections had eaten away the man's toenails, and a scar on his
heel marked an old snakebite.

As he worked, the padre wondered who this man was. What was his story? Did he have family out
there somewhere? But all attempts to speak to the man were met only with a garbled, delirious response.

Many of the peasants who tried to eke out a living met hard ends at thehands of hostile Indians, thieves,
drug traffickers, or even jungle predators. But the most common demise of these settlers was disease. In
the remote wilds of the rain forest, medical attention could be weeks away. A simple flu could bring
death.

The scuff of feet on wood drew Garcia's attention back to the door. Henaowe had returned, burdened
with the medical kit and a pail of clean water. But he was not alone. At Henaowe's side stood Kamala, a
short, white-hairedshapori, the tribal shaman. Henaowe must have run off to fetch the ancient medicine
man.

"Haya,"Garcia greeted the fellow. "Grandfather:" It was the typical way to acknowledge a Yanomamo
elder.

Kamala did not say a word. He simply strode into the room and crossed to the bed. As he stared down
at the man, his eyes narrowed. He turned to Henaowe and waved for the Indian to place the bucket and
medical kit down. The shaman then lifted his arms over the bedridden stranger and began to chant.
Garcia was fluent in many indigenous dialects, but he could not make out a single word.

Once done, Kamala turned to the padre and spoke in fluent Portuguese. "Thisnabe has been touched by
theshawara, dangerous spirits of the deep forest. He will die this night. His body must be burned before
sunrise:" With these words, Kamala turned to leave.

"Wait! Tell me what this symbol means:"

Turning back with a scowl, Kamala said, "It is the mark of the Ban-ali tribe. Blood Jaguars. He belongs
to them. None must give help to aban-yi, the slave of the jaguar. It is death:" The shaman made a gesture
to ward against evil spirits, blowing across his fingertips, then left with Henaowe in tow.

Alone in the dim room, Garcia felt a chill in the air that didn't come from the air-conditioning. He had
heard whispers of the Ban-ali, one of the mythic ghost tribes of the deep forest. A frightening people who
mated with jaguars and possessed unspeakable powers.

Garcia kissed his crucifix and cast aside these fanciful superstitions. Turning to the bucket and medicines,
he soaked a sponge in the tepid water and brought it to the wasted man's lips.
 "Drink," he whispered. In the jungle, dehydration,more than any-thing, was often the factor between life
and death. He squeezed the sponge and dribbled water across the man's cracked lips.

Like a babe suckling at his mother's teat, the stranger responded to the water. He slurped the trickle,
gasping and half choking. Garcia helped raise the man's head so he could drink more easily. After a few
minutes, the delirium faded somewhat from the man's eyes. He scrabbled for the sponge, responding to
the life-giving water, but Garcia pulled it away. It was unhealthy to drink too quickly after such severe
dehydration.