Frank nodded, and the two headed for the rear door of the church. Someone clapped Nate on the shoulder. It was Professor Kouwe. “Let’s go help,” the older man said, pointing toward the smoke.
Nathan followed the professor through the fields and around the side of the church. What he found on the far side was chaos: people running with buckets and shovels, smoke billowing in every direction, flames rampant.
“My God,” Nate said.
A village of a hundred or so small homes lay between the church and the river. Three-quarters of them were burning.
He and the professor hurried forward, adding the strength of their backs to the water brigade. Working around them were a mix of brown-skinned Indians, white missionaries, and uniformed Rangers. After about an hour of laboring, they all looked the same, just soot-covered rescuers choking and coughing on the smoke.
Nathan ran with buckets, dousing flames, concentrating on maintaining a fire break around the burning section of the village. It was up to them to hold the flames at bay. Inside the fire zone, the blaze consumed all the palm-thatched structures, turning homes into torches in mere seconds. But with the additional men, the fire was contained at last. The conflagration quickly died down as all the homes were consumed within the fire zone. Only a few glowing embers dotted the smoky ruined landscape.
During the crisis, Nate had lost track of the professor and now found himself resting beside a tall, broad-shouldered Brazilian. The man looked close to tears. He mumbled something in Portuguese that sounded like a prayer. Nate guessed he was one of the missionaries.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said in Portuguese, tugging away the scrap of cloth that had been shielding his nose and mouth. “Was anyone killed?”
“Five. All children.” The man’s voice cracked. “But many others were sickened by the smoke.”
“What happened here?”
The missionary wiped the soot from his face with a handkerchief. “It was m…my fault. I should’ve known better.” He glanced over his shoulder to the steepled church. Aside from being stained with ash and smoke, it stood unharmed. He covered his eyes, and his shoulders shook. It took him another moment to speak. “It was my decision to send the man’s body to Manaus.”
Nathan suddenly realized to whom he was speaking. “Padre Batista?” It was the mission’s leader, the one who had found Gerald Clark.
The tall Brazilian nodded. “May God forgive me.”
Nate guided Garcia Luiz Batista away from the blackened ruins of the village and into untouched green fields. He quickly introduced himself as he led the man back to his church. En route, he passed one of the Rangers, covered in soot and sweat, and asked him to send the O’Briens to the church.
With a sharp nod, the Ranger took off.
Nate walked the padre up the wooden steps and through the double doors. The interior was dark and cool. Varnished wooden pews lined the way to the altar and giant mahogany crucifix. The room was mostly empty. A few Indians lay sprawled, exhausted, both on the floor and on pews. Nate led the church’s leader toward the front and settled him in the first pew.
The man sagged into his seat, his eyes fixed on the crucifix. “It’s all my fault.” He bowed his head and lifted his hands in prayer.
Nathan remained quiet, giving the man a private moment. The church door swung open, and he spotted Frank and Kelly. Professor Kouwe was with them. All three were covered in ash from head to toe. He waved them over.
The arrival of the other three drew Padre Batista’s attention from his prayers. Nathan made introductions all around. Once done, he sat beside the padre. “Tell me what happened. How did the fires start?”
Garcia glanced around at the others, then sighed heavily and looked at his toes. “It was my own shortsightedness.”
Kelly sat on the man’s other side. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.
After a moment more, the padre spoke again. “On the night the poor man stumbled out of the forest, a shaman of the Yanomamo tribe scolded me for taking the man into the mission. He warned me that the man’s body must be burned.” The padre glanced to Nathan. “How could I do that? He surely had family. Maybe he was even a Christian.”
Nathan patted his hand. “Of course.”
“But I should not have so easily dismissed the Indians’ superstitions. I had put too much faith in their conversion to Catholicism. They’d even been baptized.” The padre shook his head.
Nate understood. “It’s not your fault. Some beliefs are too ingrained to be washed away in a single baptism.”
Padre Batista sagged. “At first, all seemed well. The shaman was still angered at my decision not to burn the body, but he accepted that at least it was gone from the village. This seemed to appease him.”
“What changed that?” Kelly asked.
“A week later, a couple of children in the village developed fevers. It was nothing new. Such ailments are commonplace. But the shaman decided these illnesses were the sign of a curse from the dead man.”
Nate nodded. He had seen firsthand such assessments himself. In most Indian tribes, illness was considered not only due to injury or disease, but often to a spell cast by the shaman of another village. Wars had broken out over such accusations.
“There was nothing I could do to dissuade him. In another few days, three more children fell ill, one of them from the Yanomamo shabano. The whole village grew tense. In fear, entire families packed up and left. Every night, drums beat and chanting could be heard.” Garcia closed his eyes. “I radioed for medical assistance. But when a doctor arrived from Junta four days later, none of the Indians would let the man examine their children. The Yanomamo shaman had won them over. I tried to plead, but they refused any medical help. Instead, they left the little ones in the care of that witch doctor.”
Nathan bristled at this term. He glanced to Professor Kouwe, who gave a small shake of his head, indicating Nate should remain silent.
The padre continued. “Then last night, one of the children died. A great wailing consumed the village. To cover up his failure, the shaman declared the village cursed. He warned that all should leave here. I tried my best to calm the panic, but the shaman had the others under his spell. Just before dawn, he and his fellow Yanomamo tribesmen set fire to their own roundhouse, then fled into the jungle.” Garcia was now openly weeping. “The…the monster had left the sick children inside. He burned them all alive.”
The padre covered his face with his hands. “With so few still in the village to help fight the fire, the flames spread through the huts. If you all had not come and helped, we could have lost everything. My church, my flock.”