Page 77 of Beautifully Wild

“He didn’t make a sound,” I say in awe.

“No. It doesn’t help, and noise upsets others. They need to find the strength within. The ants helped.”

“How?” I choke out.

“Apart from guiding them to find their inner strength, the burning sensation diverts the pain away from the tattoo.”

“Well, I’d rather the tattoo,” I blurt out.

His mouth leans close to my ear. “The tooth is sharp and stings like a bitch, yet nothing compares to the poison burning like a million hot irons.”

I move Samuel’s hair away from his right ear. It’s there—an X with a line through the center. I’d seen the symbol on the baskets. “What is it?”

“Their symbol for a butterfly.”

“Why a butterfly?”

“A representation of life. Endurance. Hope. Change for the better. Resurrection.” He glances down and smiles at me as the thought gives him inner peace.

“I see them everywhere, and today I came across heaps of them like a cloud of yellow.”

“It’s called a flutter.”

“Okay… a flutter of butterflies. Does it mean anything? I mean everything seems to hold significance here.” My gran had told me butterflies were someone special we once knew, or something good was going to happen, except my father told me never to believe what she said about those things. Now I’m finding myself wanting to trust her words.

An arm slips over my shoulder. “It means you’re on the right path.” He kisses my forehead and then releases me as quickly.

The drumming stops.

The chief stands and holds his arms in the air. He gazes up to the night sky and speaks to the heavens. Or maybe it’s to their god or ancestors. Wait. Are their ancestors the spirits in the tepuis?

Everyone stands, and the circle falls away.

There’s no cheering. No congratulatory slaps on the young boys’ backs. The ants are plucked from their skin and dropped safely inside the bamboo tubes. Families disperse in groups and return to their huts. Once again, I hone in on the monkeys’ mindless chatter and the birds’ piercing squawks as the background music. A near-full moon lights the way to our hut. Samuel slips his fingers in mine when we walk past a group of young men. My lips tingle with a smile at his ownership.

“This moving your hammock-wedding thing. I hope the men don’t want to do this to me while you’re away.”

He squeezes my hand in warning. “That’s not even funny.”

Stifling a giggle, I snort and laugh at myself. “How do you stop it? I mean it sounds too easy, yet we’re not allowed tobetogether.”

He gives me a sideways glance, expression unchanged, not seeing the humor at all. Maybe he caught a more serious tone to the last few words I said.

“The shaman has to approve it first. Then the father-in-law.”

“So, a couple has dated a while then.”

“Not always.”

Turning my body, I walk sideways so I can read his face when he answers my next question, “Are you telling me the girl has no choice?”

“Not always.”

“Do any of them believe in falling in love, first?”

“Some. Only the decision lies with the shaman and the father-in-law. My intent is known to the shaman if it’s what you’re worried about.”

I remember some international couples who I’d met in our hotel. They had told me they were married by an arranged marriage, which is common in their culture. Their love for each other is as strong as any other couple I knew. They told me their bond and love grew with time, and they couldn’t imagine themselves with anyone else. What concerns me is the young couple I saw earlier today and if it’s a secret love affair for a reason? Is one of them promised to another?

---