"BUT FIRST WE WILL go to my house. I will need to make the tea." She spoke with a native accent that might have carried a British influence. "Great-Grandfather will be sleeping now, anyway. Here, you can carry this."

She indicated a large earthenware jar of water, maybe two gallons, that was in the canoe along with the bag of leaves, presumably for the tea she had mentioned. Skip hefted the water jar as their guide picked up the bag. With Nusiri and Zane bringing up the rear, they began following her into the village.

"Great-Grandfather sleeps much these days. He is very old. The tea helps, but his time is coming soon."

"By the way," said Skip, by way of introduction, "I'm Skip. Skip Hutchins. This is my wife, Nusiri, and our son, Zane."

"Killa," she said, indicating herself."

Quechua for Moon," observed Nusiri.

"That is correct." Killa looked them over carefully.

"My middle name is Yanua," volunteered Zane. "That's Shuar for Star. From my mom's people."

"So, we might not be so different after all," said Nusiri with a reassuring smile. "Look, I don't know why you brought us here, but we mean you no harm. You can trust us. That is, if we can trust you."

Killa gave a small, tentative smile, and motioned for them to come along.

Skip gave a glance to Zane and smiled inwardly. At home, he never used his middle name, was embarrassed by it in fact. It was easier to let his friends think that he was part Hispanic, rather than some indigenous ethnicity that nobody had heard of, or if they did, associated it with shrunken heads. Even Navajo would fit in better where they now lived in New Mexico. Kids were sensitive to those sorts of things. But out here, he seemed to be connecting with that side of his heritage.

They walked through an open forest of palms and tropical hardwoods on a gentle slope up from the river. The small, simple houses were tucked nicely between the trees, and would have been hard to spot from above, as they'd noted on their scouting fly-over. Built in the Incan style, they were of local stone, with peaked, thatched roofs, small doorways framed with heavy timbers, and just one or two windows, high up on the walls. The people's curiosity were getting the better of them, as they were beginning to venture out to gawk at the strangers, but they still cautiously held their distance. From a nearby house, they could hear a baby's cries.

As they walked, Skip noticed that while some wore tunics or cotton dresses, many were clothed in more modern t-shirts and shorts and huarache-style leather sandals. He supposed they must get them in trade. In this day and age, that was pretty much the norm, even for many "uncontacted" tribes. And if these people were who Skip thought they were, they were living in a much different environment than their ancestors. If Killa spoke English, she might also speak Portuguese. Maybe she was also the tribe's merchant/ambassador to the outside world.

Killa's house was up the hill on the right, not far from those rounded hills where the jungle grew denser. Between here and there was a narrow, sunny clearing, planted in manioc, bananas and maize. Inside, they found the house simple and sparsely furnished, with just a few reed mats for sitting and sleeping, a primitive-looking stone oven, and a hand-hewn wooden table. One surprise was the Coleman camp stove set up on the table, adapted to the twenty-pound propane tank below. Acquired in trade again, no doubt.

There were a few shelves holding iron pots and earthenware bowls and a few tools and utensils. Killa took a few handfuls of the leaves she had gathered, coarsely chopped them on the table top, placed them in a pot, added some water from the jar Skip had carried, and set it to heat up on the Coleman stove.

While she did so, Skip sorted out the many questions in his mind, settling on the way they had met first. "Thank you once again for rescuing us from that jaguar. So, how did you do that anyway?"

Killa's mysterious smile hinted that her answer might be something of an enigma in itself. "I am a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. As such, I am, how you say, in tune with many things. The jaguar is my animal sign. I have an...understanding, with many animals."

Skip knew there must be more, but for now, he was content to leave it at that.

The tea was almost ready when a woman showed up at the door with a baby in her arms. As Killa ushered her in, Skip glanced at the babe, a girl of four or five months, he'd guess. One look at the fair hair and skin light and smooth as French vanilla gave him an understanding.

"The baby from the crashed airplane, out by that illegal mining operation. She survived, and you brought her here." Skip hesitated for a second, then said, "The parents..?"

Killa just shook her head. It was all they needed to know.

The woman who had brought the baby over looked at Skip and Nusiri with a question in her eyes.

Killa said something in her own language, shaking her head, then repeated, in English for Skip and Nusiri, "No, they are not here for the baby." She looked them over carefully. "You are not, are you?"

Skip and Nusiri each shook their heads while Killa prepared a weak dilution of the tea for the woman to take. "It will help the baby," she explained. "She is having a hard time sleeping at night. She is not used to our food."

After the woman thanked her and left, Killa turned back to Skip and Nusiri. "So, why are you here?"

Skip thought for a moment. He was afraid that if he told her he was a journalist, working on a article set in the Amazon basin, for whatever reason, it could come across as an invasion of the tribe's privacy and anonymity. So he decided to follow the other angle.

"We are following up on a mystery, from a long time ago. It began as a search for an explorer who disappeared a hundred years ago, named Percy Fawcett. But it became more personal when I inherited this from my grandfather." He removed the quipu and held it up, noting the way her eyes lit up as he did so. "We translated the numbers. They led us here. Any idea why?"

Killa hesitated, long enough for them to imagine that she wasn't sure how much information she should give to these strangers who showed up with an artifact that clearly sparked a reaction.

"I only know what has been passed down," she said at last. "The stories of my people, who we are, where we come from, and my people, my family, where I come from." She glanced once again at Skip's quipu. She seemed flustered. "I do not know ... if I am supposed to... I need to ask...You ... We need to talk to Great-Grandfather."

She brushed the hair out of her eyes with her fingertips and seemed to compose herself. "He should be awake now. We will take him his tea. Come."

As she poured some of the tea into a handcrafted ceramic jug, Skip could tell by the rich, dark, golden-green color that it was much stronger now than the batch she had given the woman with the baby.

Killa led them further up the hill, to the last house, up where the open forest thickened to jungle. Skip could now see the masonry aqueduct that channeled water from the river through the village, feeding fountains and basins for domestic use, and carrying it to the fields beyond, for crop irrigation. He wondered why Killa had imported water from elsewhere for the tea, when a source could be found steps from her front door.

He also assumed that by the location, in the highest house in the village, that Great-Grandfather must be the chief, or a very important elder in the village hierarchy. While still small by most standards, it was also the largest house around. And the highest fountain, and therefore the best, freshest water, was just outside his dwelling.

Killa knocked on the door. A shuffling sound issued from within.

A moment later the knock was answered by an ancient-looking gentleman, who, despite his obvious advanced age, held himself tall, and gave the impression that he had been tough as nails in his younger days. He wore a long sleeve, light gray button-down shirt, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up, and faded blue corduroy shorts. His long gray hair was tied back in a pony tail. His skin was deeply tanned, yet he appeared to be Caucasian. When he spoke, it was in English, with a British accent.

"Well, what do we have here? What, in all Amazonia, has my great-granddaughter brought me?"

"This is Skip, Nusiri, and Zane," said Killa. "They have traveled far to see us."

"Do come in," said the man, showing them inside. The furnishings, though simple, were a bit more than at Killa's. He had not only a table, but chairs, and a real bed, all looking hand-made.

"There is something you should know," Killa told him. "They have an artifact which they said led them here."

Great-Grandfather raised an eyebrow, anticipating more.

"They have the quipu."

Great-Grandfather paused and looked them over very carefully. His expression was unreadable, but his once-strong body seemed to shrink in on itself, as if the weight of years suddenly hit him all at once.

"Well, I suppose I should introduce myself," he said at last. "My name is Jack. Jack Fawcett."