Free The Economy of Light by Jack Dann Page B

one wore a lip disk, which gave him a terrifying appearance, reminding me of the man with the rotted face I had seen on the river. They all carried shotguns, which they held in a sort of port arms position. Suddenly they started shouting at us and making menacing faces. I reached for my pistol reactively, but Genaro grabbed my hand and said, “They’re making greeting. White people are backwards from Aitaí. Aitaí shake their heads when they mean yes. This is showing a bad face now so it won’t be for real.”
    The Aitaí cracked their rifles, and, with the stock swiveled down, they made resounding noises by blaring through the barrels. Birds screeched above, as if in response.
    And then another Indian stepped into the clearing. The others moved out of his way, showing him deference...either out of fear or respect. He wore no face or body paint to frighten his enemies; he didn’t need to, for half of his face and body was like that of a young man’s while the other side was withered, blotched, and wrinkled. Even his hair, which was black on one side, was a yellowish white on the other; perhaps he had dyed it, but he could not have faked the rest. The wrinkles and flaccid flesh of old age contrasted with the muscle tone and energy of youth; it was as if the younger side was bearing the weight of the older. Indeed, he favored the ‘young’ side of his body. I could not imagine what disease could have such an effect, and I felt as if I were looking at some kind of mythical demiurge.
    But the demiurge was staring back at me so intently that I had to look away.
    “What the hell happened to him ?” I whispered to Genaro, unnerved.
    The other Indians were watching us silently, as if waiting for us to make the first move.
    “He’s a claro sonhador ,” Genaro said.
    “What?”
    “Like a dreamer. Only he lives his dream to its end.”
    Then Genaro turned to him, spoke a few words, and then exchanged greetings with the other Indians, one by one. He presented me to all of them, except the sonhador ; and the tension seemed to ease a bit, although the Indians stood in place as if they were in formation.
    We exchanged gifts, as was customary.
    We gave them each a cigarette lighter, a plastic watch, a few nails and needles, and a colored comb. We would save the shorts and dresses, hammock, flashlights, and tape recorder for the chief, should we meet him.
    They didn’t give anything to Genaro, but the dreamer came over to me and sat down on his haunches. I watched him take two arrows out of his quiver, which he had laid beside him, and begin rubbing the points together over a large, veined banana leaf. A small pile of rust-colored powder began to form on the leaf. The other men were now standing around us, as if acting as protection in case a gust of wind were to scatter the powder.
    “What’s all this?” I asked Genaro, but he just shook his head and nodded in the direction of the dreamer who was rubbing the points together. He pressed against my shoulder, which meant that I should squat down on the ground. I relieved myself of my pack and sat down before the dreamer.
    “He’s making you a gift,” Genaro said as he squatted beside me. “ Um outro mundo . He’s giving you another world. Dreams you can remember.”
    “What is that stuff,” I asked nervously.
    “They call it washaharua . When they shoot a bird or an animal with it, it makes the animal relax and fall down.”
    It must contain something like tryptamine, I thought. I’d heard of that, but never of using the stuff as a hallucinogen. “I’m not taking anything,” I said.
    “Not a good idea to refuse.”
    “Why?”
    “They would kill both of us,” Genaro said matter-of-factly.
    “What about you?” I asked. “Are you going to participate in whatever they’ve cooked up?”
    “The gift is for you, Meester. I had the gifts of dreams last night. You did not, that’s what you said.”
    The dreamer expertly cut the pile in half with his fingernail,