CHAPTER 1
My plane was twice as old as me, and had come to the end of its days. I had nearly done the same, crashing in the jungle. Both me and the prof were battered, bruised and had some minor cuts, but had come off better than our plane. That was good.
What was bad was that we did not know where the hell we were, except it wasn't in the valley we were supposed to be. And that even that was far off the beaten track, visiting remote tribes before their land was destroyed or they got shot by loggers, drug traders or even government soldiers. He was documenting some of the languages. I was the pilot. He didn't like being called the prof, which is why I did it. He would have accepted doc, since he had a PhD, but insisted he was not an academic, just a post-doctoral researcher.
We stayed near the plane that night and the next day, on the off-chance that someone came looking for us. A plane is easier to see than a lost man. It was badly overcast and very likely to stay that way, so the following morning we decided to try to find a village. We knew we were being watched, so hoped there might be some sort of settlement. It was also possible that were being watched by a tribe that had no settlement. These were generally the most dangerous.
Going downhill and looking for water we eventually found a village. There were only a few women there. We supposed other women must be out foraging and the men hunting or worse. Two of the women had spears and looked at us in a way which did not look friendly. Someone must have gone to report, because a man came to the opening of a hut, barely standing. He looked about as old as my plane and in not much better condition. His beard and cross on a chain around his neck suggested he might be a missionary. Otherwise he had only a loincloth.
He said something and then collapsed. Two women carried him back in, and looked at us.
We took it as an invitation, and came cautiously in. He was lying on a mat, unconscious. There was little else. The mouldy cover of a Bible, a spoon, a broken watch and some rags which may have once been clothes appeared to be all his possessions. Things tend to rot in this climate.
The prof took his hand and said gently "Pax vobiscum".
The old man's eyes opened and he weakly put his other hand on the prof's, and said something. The woman brought a bowl of water.
"Pater noster," said the prof, which I knew was the start of the Lord's prayer, and the old guy croaked along with it, then fell unconscious again with exhaustion. I felt his forehead. It was a fever, but we were not medics.
The prof tried some languages on the woman, but she stayed impassive. Finally, he guessed something and she gave us the bowl of water, which we shared. She said something, and another woman brought us some more.
We just sat there for a couple of hours until an older woman came in and roused the old man. He took some more water and spoke into her ear. She looked surprised, even shocked, then looked at us. She went out and a little later we were brought some food.
We hung around for three days, sleeping in the hut. We were able to clean ourselves up a bit, and I tore my shirt to make bandages, hoping to hell our cuts did not get infected. We were down to shorts as far as clothing went. Whether we were guests or prisoners and whether we would live or die, I guess depended on the old priest.
He came conscious occasionally and spoke only briefly, mostly in the local language and mostly raving. But a bit in Portuguese. I can do some Spanish, and they're similar, but it was difficult. Between the two of us (mostly the prof) we picked up the fact that the tribe was called the Man Killers. It is not unusual for there to be longstanding war between peoples in nearby valleys and to have names like this. He had apparently not been very successful as a missionary, as soon became evident, but wanted a Christian burial, which we promised to do.
The prof said that it was common just to leave the dead out in the forest to be eaten. Recycling you might call it. However, some groups practised a more immediate form of recycling by cannibalism.
In his rare lucid times, the old man spoke with some of the women. I suspected he was saving our lives, but he also must have told them to dig a grave for him, which they did, as if for an animal trap. I managed to get two branches and tie them into a cross, which seemed to please him when I showed it to him.
Finally, he died. He put the cross round his neck into the prof's hand and said something. The prof said something in Latin, the old man gasped a few words, smiled and was gone. We didn't know his name. I expect God did.
The prof hung the crucifix around his own neck.
"If I guess right, I may be saving our lives," he whispered. "Or this might be exactly the wrong thing."
The natives watched us expressionless as we carried the old body to his grave. We threw in his few possessions and said the Lord's Prayer together, though I made some mistakes. Then we filled in the grave and piled rocks to keep it from being dug up by animals immediately. I fixed the cross in place.
That was it.
The women went to their work. I had no idea what was going to happen, so we went back to the priest's hut.
CHAPTER 2
"What the fuck's going on? What happens now? Where are the men?" I asked, shaking the prof.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I'm being optimistic, but I think the old man told them that the Christian god had sent us down from the sky to replace him. That's why he gave me the crucifix. Just possibly they think maybe he was right about what he was selling after all."
"Of course, I don't know how much of the lessons they remember and how they will interpret them. It is possible that when the men come back, we will be crucified."
"Oh shit!" was all I could say. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
"Stop! You're hurting me!" he called out. I hadn't realised I was shaking him so hard.
"I think it might be all right. I don't think there are any men," he added
"You what? You mean they've been killed, by some other tribe?" I asked.
"Well possibly, but I think this is a tribe of women."
Despite my desperation, I had to laugh.
"Yeah, right: a tribe of Amazons! And where do the little girls come from?"
"Have you seen any?" he asked. "In all the villages we visited, there's always been curious kids. There's no-one here younger than teenage, and the younger ones are lighter skinned than the old ones, and a bit more European in looks. I think he is the father."
I gave a sardonic laugh.
"I thought priests were supposed to be celibate and not take the title father seriously!"
"Maybe," said prof, "but just before he died, he said take care of my daughters. Now as a priest he could refer to the flock as his children or sons and daughters. I think he meant it literally."
"So why no sons?"
"Well, they could have some genetic mutation so that no sons are born, or maybe they die soon after birth. They must only mate with outsiders. Maybe they are sometimes raped by marauders. Maybe they capture a man from a neighbouring tribe and keep him until he has produced children then kill him. But I think most of the women could well be half white, so I think they're his."
I had an idea, two in fact, but I only told him one.
"Perhaps that is what he achieved. He gave up celibacy so they would not have to capture and kill men, but he could not totally eliminate war between tribes. It's the only way they can keep their territory."
The idea I didn't tell him was that there was no genetic mutation. Baby boys were just put into the jungle to be eaten.
