Captive Spirit by Liz Fichera Page B

his hand to help me up but I didn’t reach for it. This amused Alfonso—the first time I’d heard him utter anything besides a grunt or threat. Ignoring them both, I began to walk toward the stream. I could hear the water before I saw it.
    It wouldn’t take long to spear a fish. More importantly, I was determined to see my white shell again and make sure that my empty stomach wasn’t playing tricks on me.
    Diego and I walked in the direction where Jorge and I filled the water pouches. The wind hadn’t had time to cover our footprints in the soft sand.
    “What will we require, then?” Diego asked me, nudging my shoulder with his. His playfulness surprised me. And it made me feel uncomfortable, especially when I was certain he had eaten fish before. What kind of man does not know how to spear a fish? “Shall we fish with our hands?” he teased.
    Instinctively, I took one step away from him and continued walking along the edge, pretending to survey the water. The closer to the stream, the louder my voice became. “I only need a stick. A long one will do.”
    “A thick one?”
    I lifted my hands to indicate the thickness. “Like this,” I said. “Thinner is better.”
    He extended his arms and motioned to the trees that surrounded us. “That should be easy.” His face lifted toward the treetops. They towered over us like giants. He stopped and then walked to a tree with branches that were thick and heavy with green and golden leaves. Most of the tree arched into the water. Its trunk was as white as the sand.
    “How about this one?” he asked, motioning to a low branch.
    I shook my head and then swallowed. “No. I saw sturdier ones over here,” I lied, nodding vaguely in the opposite direction. “Those branches look too soft.” I pointed to the spot where Jorge and I filled the pouches. We were still too far for me to see the shell and the sky was fading from purple to black. If I wanted my shell, I would need to cross the river.
    I continued to walk determinedly and Diego loped alongside of me, his arms waving against his sides.
    “Okay, Aiyana,” he said. “As you wish.” He was enjoying this, our time alone.
    My jaw clenched as I tried not to think about it.
    When we reached the other end of the stream, the sun had almost completely disappeared behind the trees. I didn’t have much time before the forest would be completely black.
    I picked up sticks lying in the sand, turning them over in my hands, pretending to study their thickness, their weight. But what I was really doing was squinting across the stream at the trees. The wind had almost completely died down and the branches barely moved.
    Alongside me, Diego reached down to examine several suitable sticks. “This one?” he asked me.
    I shook my head.
    “This?” he picked up another. Then another.
    Finally, I mumbled, “Yes,” as I nodded at the newest stick in his hand. “That will do.”
    Diego bent lower to remove a knife from inside of his boot that was almost as long as his calf. It was sharp and silver with a shiny handle that looked like polished stone. Another tool I’d never seen.
    Whistling, Diego began to whittle. His thick fingers were strangely agile. He carved and scraped the tip of the wooden spear as if he were a master carver like Eyota. Before I could ask him where he learned—or how he made his knife—he handed me the long, pointy stick and said, “Now, we can fish.” He handed me the spear.
    “Yes,” I said, admiring it. “Now we fish.”
    I examined the tip and touched it with my finger. It was still warm from Diego’s blade. It would make a fine weapon.
    Without a word, I untied the rabbit skins around my feet and carefully placed them on the dry sand away from the water. Then I picked up the spear and walked right into the stream, aware that Diego’s eyes never stopped watching me. The intensity of his gaze was not easy to ignore. Do women not fish in his village? I wondered.
    My toes curled instantly from