Different Gods

He must have dozed off. Where is she? He looks around the circle. A thousand eyes return his stare. The stench of dried blood and vomit float in the air. Or is he smelling his own fear? He swallows hard. The nausea from the ayahuasca is subsiding, but he is trembling from head to foot. He crawls over to the spot where she’d finally given up. A sea of tiny florescent green insects scurry along the rivulets made by her blood in the mossy earth, eager to drink the dregs. Only a few clumps of matted grey hair remain. The jungle is taking her back. He curls up into a fetal position and weeps. A condor might report on a thin white man, bare to the waist, howling like the monkeys in the surrounding treetops. He stops sobbing and struggles to his feet. He hears the sound of footsteps coming close. He spits out the bile filling his mouth. As her disciple, he too knows the secrets. He doubles over in pain as a poison dart cuts into his liver. He begins a furious belching to dislodge it. They are bearing down. No longer his teachers, they are stalking him. When they find him, they will kill him. Panic seizes him and he runs. The condor watches as the man clad in the flimsy Shipibo skirt tears through the brush toward the Ucayali. Maybe there’ll be a boat. If not, he’ll take his chances and swim down river toward Pucallpa. He has to get out. Forgive us our trespasses, he prays as he runs toward the river. Mary Clare was taking her last gulp of coffee when the phone rang. “How are you, Sister?” She recognized Sister Patricia`s voice. “How much time do you have?” “Not much.” “All’s well here. Getting ready to start a new season.” “Good. One of these days we’ll catch up. Right now I need to confirm a date for the bishop’s annual visit. ” Mary Clare uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. She bit her lip. “Are you there?” “You know I hate these visits. Such an intrusion…” She bit down harder. “It’s an unavoidable fact of life, MC. Buck up.” “Oh, I know.” She put the receiver to her chest for a moment and sighed. “Any suggested date?” “October 5th? You know these visits are necessary to keep the Shelter as a legitimate apostolate of the Franciscan community.” “Ok, ok, no problem.” “Thanks. Take care, Sister.” Mary Clare sank back in her chair and looked up at the painting above her desk. A postmodern version of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Still surrounded by the traditional halo of flowers, this Lady leapt out at her dressed as a black-belted Karate warrior. She pushed away her dread. Payback time for having church sponsorship. Let it go, she told herself. Heaving herself up, she walked toward the door. Minutes later, she was directing the morning Tai Chi class.