Maurício continued painting himself for the ceremony. “Coqui told me that I have to, if I want to marry Kasiri. Or any other of the village girls, for that matter.”
Henrique knew who Kasiri was. Wherever she walked, she was followed by a crowd of admirers. Including, most recently, Maurício. Henrique did have to admit that Maurício seemed to have eclipsed the former favorite. The lure of the exotic perhaps.
As soon as Maurício discovered that Kasiri’s name meant “moon,” he had started composing poetry in her honor. Fortunately, it was all in Portuguese.
These ruminations only occupied a fraction of a second. “Uh, huh,” Henrique said. “Kasiri’s older brother really wants to help you get inside her loincloth. Right.”
“He’s always been polite to me.”
“Are you sure you understand what this ritual involves?”
“I just have to let them put a few ants on me. And not complain. No big deal, I’ve had ants crawl onto my hammock and bite me. Thanks to you. If ants are so bad, why did you try to get me to hang my hammock on that ‘greenhorn’ tree?”
Henrique decided not to answer with the truth, which was that after years in the wilderness, he had acquired the native taste for practical jokes. “Have it your way. At least you’re doing the ant ceremony, not the one which uses wasps. Remember, it’s all a waste if you cry out in pain, or flinch away.”
Maurício went off the join the other initiates; in other words, to dance and get drunk, not necessarily in that order. The village maidens brought them gourd after gourd of cachiri, which was made from fermented manioc root. And encouraged their dancing and drinking with flirtatious looks and gestures. At first Maurício was self-conscious about being in the company of youths little more than half his age. But the cachiri soon took care of that problem. Well before the three days of ceremonial boozing were completed.
* * *
On the third day, Henrique went off with the party that was to prepare the marake. The Indians had picked out, in advance, a likely ant colony, and their first task was to drive the ants out into the open. They blocked all save two tunnels, and blew tobacco smoke into one of them. That did the trick. The ants emerged and were carried, on top of leaves or sticks, to a calabash. They were dumped inside, and found themselves awash in an infusion of roucou leaves. This dulled them satisfactorily.
One of the shaman’s apprentices used a parrot feather to carefully position each of the two hundred or so somnolent red ants into the mesh at the center of the damp marake, their heads all facing the same direction. It dried, tightening the mesh about them, before they recovered. The apprentice gingerly carried the armed marake back to the chief’s hut, where it would remain until noon.
* * *
Maurício felt like he was flying through the air as he danced in the big circle. I wonder what they put in the cachiri? “I am a bird,” he shouted. “A kokoi, a hawk.” He looked at Kasiri. “Shall I swoop down on you?” he cried. She giggled. Her brother, Coqui, also seemed amused for some reason.
The initiates were called into a line, standing in front of a great trench with bark stretched across its entire length. They rhythmically beat upon the bark with sticks, summoning the Sun God.
At noon, with the sun at the zenith, the oldest woman in the village tottered forward. She picked up the marake, and pointed at Maurício.
“You first. Arms up, feet apart.” He complied, still in a hallucinatory daze.
She raised the marake, and put the business end against his cheeks for a few seconds. Then his arms. His dreamy expression started to show signs of uncertainty, but fortunately he didn’t show any pain. His chest. The outside of his thighs.
“Did they warn you that some initiates die in this ordeal?” she asked. He didn’t respond.
She paused. Then, very deliberately, she put the marake against the inside of his left thigh. She gave the back a tap, and then held it in place. Ten seconds. Maurício’s eyes widened. Twenty seconds. Each ant bite was a lance of fire, mortifying his flesh.
“Kasiri is supposed to marry my grandson, did you know that? Her grandmother and I had it all planned out, when they were both little. You, a stranger, of no great wealth or skill, are trying to spoil our plans.”
Maurício’s eyes were tearing now.
“I can’t help feeling a bit . . . resentful.”
Thirty seconds. His breath was unsteady.
“Of course, if you fail the test, there’s no problem.”
Forty seconds.
“And I take this marake away, and the pain will be over.”
Maurício didn’t notice it, but there was angry muttering in the background. And suddenly he heard Kasiri’s voice, strident with rage, but he couldn’t understand what she said.