Spam Haiku Story

Not Worry Wakeup

The shaman chanted and beat his drum
I looked on with grave concern
"Not worry, wakeup!" the woman said...

I pulled Cyn from the wreckage of the Cessna, hoping she was still alive. I was amazed I had survived myself, with nothing more than a sprained wrist and a possible cracked rib or two...

Realizing my longtime dream of flying across the Brazilian rainforest in my old light plane was risky enough. But bringing Cynthia, along, endangering her life, was just plain irresponsible. But she refused to stay behind...

Everything was going fine until I had to show off and pull that steep dive over the falls. I clipped the top of a tree on the other side of the river with the right wing as I was climbing back up, put the plane into a flat spin. We bounced off I don't know how many trees on our way down through the canopy, felt like we were going over the falls in a barrel.

When the dust settled and I realized I was still alive, I managed to force open the door of the plane and drag Cyn to safety. I could smell the leaking avgas, I knew one spark from a broken wire could send us to eternity.

Once I'd gotten us far enough away that we were out of danger, I hastily scooped up a small pile of dry leaves with my foot and laid Cynthia down on top of it. "Cyn! Wake up! You're safe now!" I shouted, but she showed no sign of consciousness. She had a large bump on her forehead, and her right leg was bent unnaturally to the side, obviously broken.

We had to be at least three miles in from the river that could lead us to civilization. I knew Cyn's leg would need to be straightened before we could make any attempt to walk there, and I figured it would be best to do it before she regained consciousness. I leaned over and pulled on her leg, feeling the bones grind as it went back into place.

She moaned in pain, but mercifully did not wake up. I lay down next to her, exhausted from our ordeal. I just needed a few minutes rest, then I would go look for something to make a splint...

I awoke to the sound of footsteps and voices in the evening twilight. I saw a small band of local tribesmen walking towards the wrecked plane. "Please help us!" I called out to them.

The men spoke little English, but I managed to let them know our predicament. One of the tribesmen pulled a blanket out of the wreckage while another cut down a couple of saplings with his machete. They carefully placed Cynthia on the makeshift stretcher, lifted her up and started walking down the trail, motioning me to follow.

The sum was almost down now, but a fire was burning brightly in the center of the village. They placed Cynthia on a blanket next to the fire. A brown-skinned young woman with tattoos on her face approached and looked at her, then at me: "Sick, she?"

I pointed to her leg: "Broken!" I said.

The woman pulled a knife from a pouch tied to her waist and cut the blood soaked cloth away from Cynthia's leg. She called out to the villagers watching her: "Alcolo! Bandagas!"

A young girl hurried away from the fire and soon returned with a bottle of cheap gin and a large piece of torn bedsheet. The woman tore a small piece of the cloth from the sheet, wetted it with the gin, and scrubbed the dirt from the cut on Cynthia's leg. Then she tore a long strip of cloth, wound it around the leg, and poured more gin over the bandage, soaking it. Then she tied a long stick alongside the bandage, wrapping it with more of the cloth.

Througout this ordeal Cynthia remained unconscious, barely making a sound. I was worried, she should have felt that. What if she had brain damage from the concussion?

An old man with ochre in his hair carrying a small drum approached us. Obviously he was the the village shaman. "Feevah?" he asked the woman.

She reached over and placed the back of her wrist on Cynthia's forehead for a couple seconds, then pulled it away. "No feevah," she said.

He nodded, knowingly, and started his ritual. The shaman chanted and beat his drum. I looked on with grave concern. "Not worry, wakeup!" the woman said to me.

The shaman poured a small amount of tan colored powder from a leather pouch into the palm of his hand. He leaned over Cynthia and blew strongly into his hand, sending the powder into her face. Cynthia started coughing and sneezing. Her eyelids fluttered, opened.

"Cyn, you'e alive!" I cried out, as I hurried to her side.

"Yeah, I'm alive..." she said weakly, "No thanks to you! You're gonna owe me for this buster, big time!"

It was great to have her back...