A cloud passed in front of the sun, and Nate watched it closely. It was puffy and white, not the least bit threatening, but it scared him nonetheless. Any thunder in the distance, and he'd be ready to move. They ate some wafers and cheese while sitting in the boat.
The chief whistled for them and interrupted their snack. He was alone, coming from the village. They met halfway, and followed him for a hundred feet, then changed directions and moved behind the huts on another trail. Nate could see the common area of the village. It was deserted, not a single Ipica wandering about. No children playing. No young ladies raking the dirt around the dwellings. No women cooking and cleaning. Not a sound. The only movement was the drifting smoke of their fires.
Then he saw faces in the windows, little heads peeking through doors. They were being watched. The chief kept them away from the huts as if they were carrying diseases. He turned onto another trail, one that led through the woods for a few moments. When they emerged into a clearing, they were across from Rachel's hut.
There was no sign of her. The chief led them past the front door, and to the side, where, under the thick shade trees, they saw the graves.
Chapter Fifty-Two
I HE MATCHING white crosses were made of wood and I had been carefully cut and polished by the Indians, then lashed together with string. They were small, less than a foot tall, and stuck into the fresh dirt at the far end of both graves. There was no writing on them, nothing to indicate who had died, or when.
It was dark under the trees. Nate put his satchel on the ground between the graves, and sat on it. The chief began talking softly and quickly.
"The woman is on the left. Lako is on the right. They died on the same day, about two weeks ago," Jevy translated. More words from the chief, then, "Malaria has killed ten people since we left," Jevy said.
The chief delivered a long narrative without stopping for any translating. Nate heard the words, yet heard nothing. He looked at the mound of dirt to the left, a neat pile of black soil laid in a perfect little rectangle, carefully bordered by shaved limbs four inches round. Buried there was Rachel Lane, the bravest person he'd ever known because she had absolutely no fear of death.
She welcomed it. She was at peace, her soul finally with the Lord, her body forever lying among the people she loved.
And Lako was with her, his heavenly body cured of defects and afflictions.
The shock came and went. Her death was tragic, but then it wasn't. She wasn't a young mother and wife who left a family behind. She didn't have a wide circle of friends who'd rush to mourn her passing. Only a handful of people in her native land would ever know she was gone. She was an oddity among the people who'd buried her.
He knew her well enough to know she wouldn't want anyone grieving. She wouldn't approve of tears, and Nate had none to give her. For a few moments he stared at her grave in disbelief, but reality soon set in. This was not an old friend with whom he'd shared many moments. He'd barely known her. His motives in finding her had been purely selfish. He had invaded her privacy, and she had asked him not to return.
But his heart ached anyway. He'd thought about her every day since he'd left the Pantanal. He'd dreamed of her, felt her touch, heard her voice, remembered her wisdom. She had taught him to pray, and given him hope. She was the first person in decades to see anything good in him.
He had never met anyone like Rachel Lane, and he missed her greatly.
The chief was quiet. "He says we can't stay very long," Jevy said.
"Why not?" Nate asked, still staring at her grave.
"The spirits are blaming us for the malaria. It arrived when we came the first time. They are not happy to see us."
"Tell him his spirits are a bunch of clowns."
"He has something to show you."
Slowly, Nate stood and faced the chief. They walked through the door of her hut, bending at the knees to get through. The floor was dirt. There were two rooms. The front room had furniture too primitive to believe, a chair made of cane pole and lashings, a sofa with stumps for legs and straw for cushions. The back room was a bedroom and a kitchen. She slept in a hammock like the Indians. Under the hammock, on a small table, was a plastic box that once held medical supplies. The chief pointed to the box and began speaking.
"There are things in there for you to see," Jevy translated.
"For me?"
"Yes. She knew she was dying. She asked the chief to guard her hut. If an American came, then show him the box."
Nate was afraid to touch it. The chief picked it up and gave it to him. He backed out of the room and sat on the sofa. The chief and Jevy stepped outside.
His letters never made it, at least they were not in the box. There was a Brazilian identification badge, one required of every non-Indian in the country. There were three letters from World Tribes. Nate didn't read them because at the bottom of the box he saw her will.
It was in a white, legal-sized envelope and had a Brazilian name engraved for the return address. On it, she had neatly printed the words: Last Testament of Rachel Lane Porter.
Nate stared at it in disbelief. His hands shook as he carefully opened it. Folded inside were two sheets of white letter-sized paper, stapled together. On the first sheet, in large letters across the top she had printed, again, Last Testament of Rachel Lane Porter.
It read:
I, Rachel Lane Porter, child of God, resident of His world, citizen of the United States, and being of sound mind, do hereby make this as my last testament.
1.1 have no prior testaments to revoke. This is my first and last. Every word is written by my hand. This is intended to be a holographic will.
2.1 have in my possession a copy of the last testament of my father, Troy Phelan, dated December 9, 1996, in which he gives me the bulk of his estate. I am attempting to pattern this will after his.
3. I do not reject or decline that portion of his estate due me. Nor do I wish to receive it. Whatever his gift is to me, I want it placed in a trust.
4. The earnings from the trust are to be used for the following purposes: a) to continue the work of World Tribes missionaries around the world, b) to spread the Gospel of Christ, c) to protect the rights of indigenous peoples in Brazil and South America, d) to feed the hungry, heal the sick, shelter the homeless, and save the children.
5. I appoint my friend Nate O'Riley to manage the trust, and I grant him broad discretionary powers in its administration. I also appoint him as executor of this testament.
Signed, the sixth day of January 1997, at Corumba, Brazil.
RACHEL LANE PORTER
He read it again, and again. The second sheet was typed and in Portuguese. It would have to wait for a moment.
He studied the dirt between his feet. The air was sticky and perfectly still. The world was silent, not a sound from the village. The Ipicas were still hiding from the white man and his plagues.
Do you sweep dirt? To make it neat and clean? What happens when it rains and the straw roof leaks? Does it puddle and turn to mud? On the wall facing him were handmade shelves filled with books-Bibles, devotionals, studies in theology. The shelves were slightly uneven, tilting an inch or two to the right.
This was her home for eleven years.
He read it again. January 6 was the day he walked out of the hospital in Corumba. She wasn't a dream. She'd touched him and told him he wouldn't die. Then she had written her will.
The straw rustled under him as he moved. He was in a trance when Jevy poked his head through the door and said, "The chief wants us to leave."
"Read this," Nate said, handing him the two sheets of paper with the second one on top. Jevy stepped forward to catch the light from the door. He read slowly, then said, "Two people here. The first is a lawyer, who says that he saw Rachel Lane Porter sign her testament in his office, in Corumba. She was mentally okay. And she knew what she was doing. His signature is officially marked by a, what do you say-"