Free Birth of the Wolf (Wahaya) by J. B. Peterson

His arms rose straight up and he whispered “Zeev!” hoarsely and keeled over.
    Whatever the word meant, the young men became very wary, facing outward from the group, spearheads lowered.  They closed in until they were nearly side by side…and they stayed that way.
    * * * * *
    Nick cleared the mangrove swamp at just about the time Dave was talking to the General on the satphone, and he picked up his pace.  Something troubled his spirit, and he was aware as he had been many times over his career, that something had gone wrong. 
    The feeling was ahead of him rather than behind him, and he began to run in earnest.  He estimated that he was by now a good fifteen kilometers from the ridge, but he was not running on a road or a track.  He estimated that at his present speed, it would take him about two hours to reach the ridge where Dave and the women were waiting. 
    He hoped they were still there or had left good directions to the LZ for the chopper…but his spirit was still troubled.
    Nick smelled the fragrant smoke from the fire long before he reached the base of the ridge, and he stopped.  A grove of Lucuma trees provided him with the concealment he needed while he slowed his breathing and the blood pounding in his veins.  With the vigorous activity stopped, his endorphins couldn’t quite suppress the pain of the deep cuts he had gotten from the piranha.  He didn’t have to look to see the red streaks coming from the deep cuts to know that they were infected. He could feel the thickness in his legs.
    He had to keep moving to keep from stiffening up, and he willed himself to do so.  Nick crawled through the darkened brush, the late afternoon sum casting shadows that he used as naturally as he breathed to conceal his movements.  He didn’t stop until he was close enough that he could have reached out and touched one of the quivering handmade spears of the young men.
    Nick’s eyes took in the old shaman and saw the opened pouches on his belt.  It seemed the rituals of the Awajun were very similar to the rituals of the Cherokee. 
    Working in the San Martin Province of Peru over a period of years, Nick had not only learned to speak fluent Quechua, he had spent much time with the Awajun.  Nothing was happening, and the young warriors were edgy. 
    Nick thought it best that he remain still and in hiding -- sooner or later these men would give him all he needed to dominate them and bend them to his will. These people had been treated badly by every organized government Peru had ever had, and Nick would not compound that error unnecessarily.  He waited.
    * * * * *
    Within an hour the old man awakened from his drug induced stupor, and the first word to come from his parched mouth was “Yumi (Water.)”  The youngest warrior, his assistant, brought water with the same dipper the drug had been delivered with and the old man drank thirstily.
    He looked up a called the circle of warriors, telling the men to face him.  He spoke one word.  “Zeev!” he said, and gestured to the large gourd.  Each of the young men in turn came to kneel in front of the makeshift altar, and drank their cupful of aja'waska. 
    They took turns, making repeated trips to the altar until the large cauldron sized gourd was empty. When the gourd was almost empty, the Shaman lifted it and drank the dregs in the bottom, perhaps the most powerful draft of all.  The warriors faced the faint flames of the small fire, and the youngest among them, who had not been permitted the drink, heavy branches and logs into the fire a little at a time.
    Nick had started when the Shaman had called out “Zeev,” it was the Quechuan word for “Wolf.”  It gave him the key he would need to get assistance from these men and freedom for his friends.
    With infinite care, Nick backed away from the circle and moved back down the path.  He stripped off the shirt to his night suit and stuffed in into the old fashioned butt pack, and then pulled out the tiny