The Sign of the Jaguar: An ORIGIN Short

At first, I’m not certain what woke me. I sit upright in my hammock, staring into the darkness as my eyes slowly adjust, and I listen to the jungle.

Cicadas roar. Leaves sigh and rustle. Monkeys howl to one another through the trees. The more I listen, the more I hear: the river rushing along the banks, the clicking of insects, birds whistling tree to tree. None of these woke me. They are the sounds to which I’ve slept every night of my life.

There! There it is! Soft and distant, more memory than sound—a jaguar’s roar.

I look around; no one else has heard it. The other men sleep soundly; Pinon’s snores sound like a capybara wallowing in mud. I drop soundlessly to the ground, then wince when the stick supports of my hammock rattle. Pinon is awake in an instant. For all his heavy snoring, he is the lightest sleeper among us.

            “Eio? What are you doing?” he asks loudly.

            I pause, my heart sinking. This one is mine. To see a jaguar brings great luck, and I have little desire to share my luck with the likes of Pinon, who catches fish just so he can bash them on the rocks. His question wakes Raini and Kava, who sit up and stare at me expectantly.

            “Well, mongyla, what is it?” asks Kava.

            I flinch at the word. He wouldn’t dare use it in front of the elders.

            “Kava!” Pinon hisses. “You’ll make him cry, eh? Don’t cry, Eio my friend. No one here really thinks you’re mongyla.”

            He’s lying. They do think it and they make no secret of it, him and Raini and Kava and the younger kids, and even some of the older ones. Mongyla. Dirty one. Mixed blood. Ugly. A little word with many interpretations, but it doesn’t bother me the way it used to. Despite my father’s foreign blood, I’ve proven myself more of an Ai’oan than any of them—taking bigger game, running faster, climbing higher, mastering English and Portuguese years before the rest. They can call me mongyla and popeno—giant—as much as they wish. I have been bitten by the same sacred ants, I have fished the same sacred river, I have slain anaconda with a single arrow. Pinon and Kava are just flies in the wind. In the jungle, we are all the same.

            “I heard a jaguar,” I say softly. “I am going to look for him.”

            Pinon snorts. “You heard a sick tapir, nothing more.”

            If he wants to piss on my generosity, it’s nothing to me. I gave him his chance. With a shrug, I duck beneath my hammock and into the open. “Stay, then. Just try to keep your snoring down or you’ll scare him away.”

            Raini and Kava laugh; they are no more fond of Pinon’s snores than I am. This just makes Pinon angry, and he calls out, “Go to your imaginary jaguar, then, Eio popeno, but when you find only your own ass, don’t expect me to dry your tears!”

            I don’t look back, but stride through the village with my head held high. Ai’oa is silent and sleeping, our huts blending into the jungle as if they grew out of the earth. The fires are dark but still warm, and their smoky scent fills my lungs. I kick aside a banana peel someone tossed to the ground.

 Pinon is stupid. He won’t deter me from my quest. It’s been some time since I saw a jaguar. Luri told me once that jaguars lead us to our destiny, but I’ll be content with just a handful of luck.