Free The Economy of Light by Jack Dann Page A

no use. And I knew that although Genaro wouldn’t have come this far on his own, that he was here for me out of a sense of direito , of duty and honor, he was here now for himself. Perhaps Onca’s scream that night was for Genaro, for the death he was carrying. We both carried it, only mine was manifest on my skin and in my organs.
    We walked through the forest until dark, with frequent stops, and then made camp near a stream that gurgled and fell over black rocks, a small white waterfall of foam and spray. White noise. We set up our tent, built a fire, and Genaro and I ate some of our canned rations. The darkness seemed absolute, bringing with it the constant chittering of insects and the skreeing of bats overhead. I couldn’t see the sky, as the canopy of trees effectively blocked it out, and the shadows cast by the fire before me gave the nearby trees a quality of constant motion. I imagined that the monsters Genaro had talked about were lurking all around us, and I would jump when I heard a branch or leaves being crunched underfoot. And I could see the red reflections of fire in the eyes of forest creatures watching us. I took a pill for pain and chewed on the bark Genaro had given me to quell the nausea.
    “Genaro, do you have any idea where we really are?”
    Genaro didn’t look up at me, but stirred the fire with a charred stick.
    “Well?” I asked.
    “Aitaí country here,” Genaro said, after a time. “Aitaí people want to see you, give you dreams, see what you do with them. Best to be asleep when they do that or makes you crazy like drugs. So best we go to sleep,” and with that he crawled inside the tent. End of conversation.
    But I wasn’t ready to sleep yet. I looked around and listened to the stream. The fire was low, so I broke a few branches and tossed them into the weak flames. Maybe someone was out there, for I felt as if I was being stared at. I went to the edge of the firelight, looking about. Then, exhausted, I crawled into the tent. I lay on the damp ground in my sleeping bag and listened to the mosquitoes buzzing and vibrating against the tent canvass. I could smell my sweat and Genaro’s, sweet and fetid; mine was mixed with the almost gasoline odor of insect repellant. I chewed on the medicine Genaro gave me and waited for sleep and dreams.
    I stared wide-eyed into darkness.
    I slept fitfully and was awakened once by Genaro sobbing and moaning and talking and thrashing beside me. Perhaps the Aitaí were giving him dreams, as he said they would.
    We both woke up just before dawn.
    “I heard you moaning and talking in your sleep,” I told Genaro.
    He just grunted, obviously not willing to discuss his dreams, nor curious about what he might have said; although I couldn’t have told him anything, anyway, as I could only make out slurred words and moans. After we crawled out of the tent he asked, “Did you have dreams, Meester?”
    I had not dreamed at all, at least not that I could remember, and that’s what I told him.
    “If you dreamed, you would remember Aitaí.”
    “What do you remember?” I asked.
    “Aitaí are here, you’ll see,” Genaro said. “But you must have had dreams.”
    “Not that I can remember.”
    “Then maybe this is your dream,” Genaro said.
    I looked up at him, expecting his raised lip grin. But his face was as vacant as a somnambulist.
    * * * *
    We broke camp after dawn, as a dusky light filtered through the trees, turning everything sallow, as if a cinematographer were using yellow lenses for strange effect. I hoisted my pack—which was much lighter than Genaro’s—to my shoulders, and seven Indian men stepped out of the forest into our clearing. They appeared out of the bush without a sound, as if they were spirits. Their faces were heavily painted and tattooed, their oiled black hair was cut straight across the forehead; some of the men wore shirts or pants, others wore penis sheaths, balsa earplugs, long fans of palm splinters stuck into lips, and