The Testament

Fifty-two

The matching white crosses were made of wood and 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:

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 Corumbá. 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 Corumbá. She was mentally okay. And she knew what she was doing. His signature is officially marked by a, what do you say—”

“A notary.”

“Yes, a notary. The second, here on the bottom, is the lawyer’s secretary, who, it looks like, says the same things. And the notary certifies her signature too. What does this mean?”

“I’ll explain later.”

They stepped into the sunlight. The chief had his arms folded over his chest — his patience was almost gone. Nate removed his camera from the satchel and began taking pictures of the hut and the graves. He made Jevy hold her will while squatting by her grave. Then Nate held it as Jevy took photos. The chief would not agree to have his picture taken with Nate. He kept as much distance as possible. He grunted, and Jevy was afraid he might erupt.

They found the trail and headed for the woods, again staying away from the village. As the trees grew thicker, Nate stopped and turned for one last look at her hut. He wanted to take it with him, to lift it somehow and transport it to the States, to preserve it as a monument so that the millions of people she would touch could have a place to visit and say thanks. And her grave too. She deserved a shrine.

That’s the last thing she would want. Jevy and the chief were out of sight, so Nate hurried ahead.

They made it to the river without infecting anyone. The chief grunted something at Jevy as they got in the boat. “He says for us not to come back,” Jevy said.

“Tell him he has nothing to worry about.”

Jevy said nothing, but instead started the engine and backed away from the bank.

The chief was already walking away, toward his village. Nate wondered if he missed Rachel. She’d been there for eleven years. She seemed to have considerable influence over him, but she had not been able to convert him. Did he mourn her passing, or was he relieved that his gods and his spirits now had free rein? What would happen to the Ipicas who had become Christians, now that she was gone?

He remembered the shalyuns, the witch doctors in the villages who hounded Rachel. They were celebrating her death. And assailing her converts. She had fought a good fight, now she was resting in peace.

Jevy stopped the motor and guided the boat with a paddle. The current was slow, the water smooth. Nate carefully opened the SatFone and arranged it on a bench. The sky was clear, the signal strong, and within two minutes he had Josh’s secretary scurrying to find her boss.

“Tell me she signed that damned trust, Nate,” were his first words. He was yelling into the phone.

“You don’t have to yell, Josh. I can hear you.”

“Sorry. Tell me she signed it.”

“She signed a trust, but not ours. She’s dead, Josh.”

“No!”

“Yes. She died two weeks ago. Malaria. She left a holographic will, just like her father.”

“Do you have it!?”

“Yes. It’s safe. Everything goes into a trust. I’m the trustee and executor.”

“Is it valid?”

“I think so. It’s written entirely in her hand, signed, dated, witnessed by a lawyer in Corumbá and his secretary.”

“Sounds valid to me.”

“What happens now?” Nate asked. He could see Josh standing behind his desk, eyes closed in concentration, one hand holding the phone, the other patting his hair. He could almost hear him plotting over the phone.

“Nothing happens. His will is valid. Its bequests are carried out.”

“But she’s dead.”

“His estate is transferred to hers. Happens all the time in car wrecks when one spouse dies one day, then the other dies the next. The bequests go from estate to estate.”

“What about the other heirs?”

“The settlement stands. They get their money, or what’s left of it after the lawyers take their cuts. The heirs are the happiest people on the face of the earth, with the possible exception of their lawyers. There’s nothing for them to attack. You have two valid wills. Looks like you’ve just become a career trustee.”

“I have broad discretionary powers.”

“You have a lot more than that. Read it to me.”

Nate found it deep in his satchel, and read it, very slowly, word for word.

“Hurry home,” Josh said.

Jevy absorbed every word too, though he appeared to be watching the river. When Nate hung up and put the phone away, Jevy asked, “The money is yours?”

“No. The money goes into a trust.”

“What is a trust?”

“Think of it as a big bank account. It sits in the bank, protected, earning interest. The trustee decides where the interest goes.”

Jevy still wasn’t convinced. He had many questions, and Nate sensed his confusion. It was not the time for a primer on the Anglo version of wills, estates, and trusts.

“Let’s go,” Nate said.

The motor started again, and they flew across the water, roaring around curves, a wide wake spraying behind them.

They found the chalana late in the afternoon. Welly was fishing. The pilots were playing cards on the back of the boat. Nate called Josh again, and told him to retrieve the jet from Corumbá. He wouldn’t be needing it. He would take his time coming home.

Josh objected, but that was all he could do. The Phelan mess had been settled. There was no real rush.

Nate told the pilots to contact Valdir when they returned, then sent them on their way.

The crew of the chalana watched the chopper disappear like an insect, then cast off. Jevy was at the wheel. Welly sat below, at the front of the boat, his feet dangling inches above the water. Nate found a bunk and tried to nap. But the diesel was next door. Its steady knock prevented sleep.

The vessel was a third the size of the Santa Loura, even the bunks were shorter. Nate lay on his side and watched the riverbanks go by.

Somehow she’d known he wasn’t a drunk anymore, that his addictions were gone, that the demons who’d controlled his life had been forever locked away. She had seen something good in him. Somehow she knew he was searching. She’d found his calling for him. God told her.

Jevy woke him after dark. “We have a moon,” he said. They sat on the front of the boat, Welly at the wheel just behind them, following the light of a full moon as the Xeco snaked its way toward the Paraguay.

“The boat is slow,” Jevy said. “Two days to Corumbá.”

Nate smiled. He didn’t care if it took a month.