The Secret Path by Karen Swan (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

had told her there was then a twenty-minute walk from the ‘road’ to the village and she wondered how he did this in the dark, every morning and evening. In spite of her cold shower, the sweat was rolling off her again.

He stopped the car in a small clearing and they walked in single file again, Tara planting her feet in the spaces where he had put his. They didn’t talk much. They were both tired and she needed her concentration, her senses on high alert. Jed’s body language was relaxed, yet attuned, his head moving fractionally in the direction of every twig snap, every brush of leaves, but there was no tension in the swing of his arms. He knew exactly where to go, even though markers seemed non-existent to her.

The lone song of a dusky nightjar pirouetted in the air, soaring above the canopies and heading for the stars. The sky was almost blocked from view but when it did peep through, it seemed salted, more bright than dark as galaxies twisted through endless space. Occasional birds, silhouetted in dramatic shapes, pitched past in silence.

‘There.’

She looked up. Jed had stopped walking and was pointing to two carved terracotta statues, positioned either side of the path like a gateway. Beyond them lay a cluster of buildings, not so much houses as huts – they were larger than she had expected, some conically shaped, with pitched, rush-covered roofs that skimmed the ground; others were rectangular and built on stilts, with large hatches that pulled down to serve as windows for light and airflow.

She could see a rusty child-sized bike abandoned below one house; beside it, a plastic play pit on legs that had once been red but had faded to a gentle pink. But that was as far as Westernization went – a snakeskin was drying on a wooden rack outside one hut, some carved wooden staffs were propped against a wall. She could smell wood smoke and hear the low murmur of voices. Someone was singing.

It was almost ten now and she still hadn’t eaten since they’d had the mangoes at the rock pools. Her tummy grumbled as if in realization of the fact.

‘Should I wait here? Let you go in first?’

But Jed shook his head. ‘No. You are very welcome.’

She followed him in, hearing first the shouts of joy of his children as they heard him approach, then seeing their faces as they leaped into his arms. Tara felt a rush of emotion as a young girl with eyes as bright as a squirrel’s flung her arms around his neck – then saw her. She stared at Tara with an unabashed curiosity. Tara smiled back, almost shy herself.

She saw his wife, Sarita, stand up from a low stool; she was carrying a baby in a papoose and had been feeding another child, a toddler, from a couple of banana leaves fashioned as a bowl.

Jed said something to her in Spanish and she nodded, looking over at Tara with a curious, clear-eyed gaze, like her daughter’s. She came over to where they were standing. Jed was still talking to her.

Sarita reached a hand and clasped Tara’s in her own. She said something in a low voice and gently tugged her arm.

‘Sarita says it is an honour to meet you. Please sit down, she would like to make you comfortable.’

‘Thank you,’ Tara replied, nodding exaggeratedly to convey her own pleasure. ‘But please tell her not to go to any trouble. I’ve come to see Paco, remember? I’ve come to help you, for once.’

Jed shrugged and in the gesture she understood it was important to honour the wishes of his wife. On their drive over here, Jed had explained the Bribri tribe’s culture – how men were allowed to take more than one wife, though he never would, that marriage was granted through common understanding, that their society was matrilineal – so Tara allowed herself to be taken to the wooden stool where Sarita had been sitting only moments before. Knowing it would be rude to refuse, she obediently sat.

The space was imposing, surprisingly impressive. The ceiling was high, supported by massive timber poles and struts. It was like being in a wooden Big Top. The roof was covered with splayed hands of dried rushes; she could glimpse the sky through tiny gaps – not so good in the wet season – but right now, tonight, she was grateful for any extra breeze. Some rope hammocks swung off the ground, and bags filled with what seemed to be clothes were knotted and tied to the vertical support poles.

She watched as Sarita crossed the space, talking animatedly to her husband. The children – the little girl and the toddler boy – stood by their father’s legs, staring at her. Where was Paco?

She twisted slightly and saw, in the far corner, a large mattress on the floor. But only one. There was a shape under a sheet and it shifted suddenly, as if sensing it was being observed. Tara flinched as she saw the traces of the boy lying there. He was tiny, little more than skin and bone, eyes appearing to bulge in a sunken face, his teeth oversized in his head. His hair had been razed short as he sweated, febrile.

Instinctively, forgetting her manners, she went over and crouched by the mattress. Dimly, she heard Jed’s voice, talking again in Spanish – so not to her.

‘Hola, Paco,’ she smiled. ‘Me llamo Tara. Soy tu amiga,’ she said in her basic Spanish.

She received a blank stare in return.

‘Soy medica. Como estais?’

Slowly, as if asking his permission, she held up her hand to him and when he didn’t protest, placed the back of it to his forehead. By touch alone she knew he was above thirty-nine degrees. She took his pulse; it was racing. There was some swelling in his hands at the finger joints that she could feel, and a bucket to the side of the mattress suggested he was routinely being