the rest of the village, but she knew the villagers had not missed the pitifully thick smoke that had rolled from her cast-iron skillet during those first weeks. Nor had they missed the reason for Nate’s casual forays into the village proper just as their fires were emitting the enticing perfume of golden brown flatbread and tender roasted meat and vegetables. She knew she had been laughed at much in those early days, but she didn’t care. They were a kind people and didn’t intend to hurt her feelings. Besides, she knew how to laugh at herself—and she could lie in Nate’s arms at night and delight in that sweetest bliss of shared laughter.
“That was an interesting recipe you made tonight,” he’d told her one night after she’d ruined supper two evenings in a row. His tone was serious, but his smile blazed in the darkness. A long pause while she waited for his punch line. “Really, Daria,” he said finally, “you should write a cookbook—except I hear blackened food is already passé back in the States.”
She put an elbow hard to his ribs. “If you’d just let me have a stove you’d be surprised what a good cook I might be! Just think of the juicy pies and cookies and chocolate cakes and—”
Then he locked her in his arms and playfully rolled her over, his sweet tooth aching, she knew, at her torturous litany of his weaknesses. “Not fair!” he cried.
He deftly changed the subject with the kisses that were her weakness, wrestling her gently on the soft grass mat that was their bed. They shared their love in whispers and muffled giggles so their voices wouldn’t be heard across the stream in the village.
She never had managed to wear him down about the stove—not even after one of the villagers acquired a propane cooker. Nate had come to be part of the Timoné culture, and to him buying a stove was like giving in to his spoiled American upbringing.
She shook off the poignant memory. Brushing a strand of sun-bleached hair from her face, she scooped grease into the skillet and carried it outside. The flames had died down, and the coals were just right for baking. Soon the corn bread sizzled, spattering drops of grease into the fire and filling the air with its fragrance. After a minute, she flipped the circle of dough expertly and put the pan back on the fire.
While the bread finished frying, she stretched her arms lazily over her head and panned her gaze to the darkening afternoon sky. In the hills to the north, the trail of smoke had grown darker, a swirling column now that was a deeper grey than the rain-heavy sky. It made her think of the funnel clouds that often ravaged the flat-lands of Kansas. A chill went up her spine, and she wondered briefly if she should try to radio Bogotá and report the fire.
The wind came up as it did almost every afternoon, carrying swollen clouds, swaying the branches and palm fronds overhead, making a commotion as familiar as her own breath. As the first raindrops penetrated the forest umbrella, Daria took the skillet from the fire and hurriedly climbed to the doorway of the hut. She went in to sit at the crude bench near the window, her eyes avoiding the empty mat in the corner where she would sleep alone again tonight.
Ten days had passed with no sign of Nathan or Quimico and Tados. For the first time in her life, Daria tasted terror.
Yesterday, after two days of silence, Bob Warrington, their contact in Bogotá, had gotten through to her on the radio. Daria attempted to sound unconcerned when she told Bob that Nathan had not yet returned. Now she regretted it.
She walked to the commons in the center of the village, her prayers for Nate’s safety interrupted by thoughts of what she would do if he still wasn’t back tomorrow—or the next day, or the next. She said a quick amen as she spotted the children gathering in the large, thatch-roofed shelter, which served as the village gathering place.
Little Jirelle came running to greet her, the light in her eyes twinkling from behind a curtain of shiny, jet-black bangs. “Hollio, Teacher!” she cried.
“Hollio, Jirelle. Ceju na. Come here.” For her own sake as well as the children’s, she deliberately repeated her Timoné words in English.
Jirelle shyly took Daria’s hand and walked with her the rest of the way to the commons. Daria smiled,