Chapter 175: The Jaibana

The Nokko stepped closer to Krugger, his bare feet silent against the damp earth. He studied him for a long moment, dark eyes narrowing like a jaguar measuring prey, then spoke slowly.

“You carry yourself like an old warrior,” he said at last. “That surprises me.”

Mateo translated the words carefully.

Krugger met the Nokko’s gaze and, for the first time, truly saw him. A long, pale scar crossed the man’s chest—four deep grooves, unmistakably made by claws. They were old wounds, badly healed, yet worn with pride. The Nokko stood straight despite them, his shoulders heavy not with age, but with responsibility. Though dressed as an indigenous leader, his presence reminded Krugger of veteran officers from Prussia—men who had survived battles that should have killed them.

For the first time since arriving in these mountains, Krugger felt he was standing before someone who truly understood war.

He bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but in respect.”I gladly accept a compliment from another warrior,” he said.

When Mateo translated, the Nokko burst into laughter, loud and sudden, echoing through the trees. Several tribesmen tightened their grip on weapons, their eyes never leaving the Germans. The laughter did not relax them; if anything, it made them more alert.

The Nokko raised a hand, silencing his people, and his tone hardened.

“Then speak,” he said. “Why have warriors from beyond the Great Sea come into our mountains? You say you wish to exchange something. But understand this: aside from our gold and silver, there is little your kind has ever wanted from us. And many greedy eura have tried to take even that. None of them ever left these mountains alive.”

A chill crawled up Krugger’s spine.

He knew the history. These people had resisted Spanish incursions for nearly three centuries. They had been hunted, cornered, and betrayed—yet still they remained, guarding their land and their secrets. This was not an idle threat.

Krugger steadied his voice.

“Some of my men are dying from Mal de la Cordillera,” he said. “We were told you have saved others from this sickness before. I am here to ask if you are willing to help them.”

Mateo translated, his voice tense.

“As a warrior,” Krugger continued, “you must understand what it is like to watch strong men fall—not by blade or bullet, but by something unseen.”

The Nokko listened in silence. When the translation ended, his expression darkened.

“You mean Mal de los Eura,” he said coldly. “Yes. We know it well.”

He paused, then continued, his voice precise, almost clinical.

“If they are still in the Shadow Cycle, we can save most of them. If they have entered the Flowering Cycle, three of four may survive. But if they reach the Purification Cycle… only one in four returns.”

Krugger frowned when the Nokko spoke of cycles. The words meant nothing to him. Seeing his confusion, he instead described the symptoms afflicting his men in detail, hoping the Nokko could determine their condition from that alone.

After listening carefully, the Nokko nodded.”You are fortunate,” he said. “From what you describe, most of your men remain in the Shadow Cycle. Only a few have entered the Flowering Cycle. If we begin treatment today, there is a strong chance many will survive.”He paused, his gaze sharpening.”But life is never taken lightly. What are you willing to give in exchange?”

Krugger’s frown deepened.

Pesos? He doubted silver coins would mean much to men who wore polished metal on their chests. Weapons? Even if they desired them, he could not agree. With their supplies already depleted, they were barely able to arm three hundred men as it was.

After a moment, he spoke honestly.”Sir, I do not know what would be of value to you. Tell me what you seek.”

The Nokko considered this in silence, then said,”Give us iron thunder.”

Krugger looked puzzled. Mateo quickly leaned closer and explained cautiously,”He means muskets, sir. They name them after the sound they make.”

Understanding dawned immediately, and Krugger shook his head.”I cannot,” he replied firmly. “We have only enough weapons to protect our families in Antioquia. If we give them away, we may lose everything.”

The Nokko’s expression dimmed slightly, but he did not press the matter. Instead, he asked,”Do you have sea salt? Pure salt is rare in these mountains. We would trade medicine for it.”

Krugger’s eyes lit up with relief.”Yes,” he answered at once. “We have enough in our supplies. Tell me how much you require, and I will see it delivered.”

The Nokko hesitated.”I must consult the Jaibaná. He alone knows how much the spirits will demand, depending on the herbs and rites required.”

He sent several men back toward the village.

After some time, a figure emerged from the forest. His body was painted with sharp geometric patterns in black and red, and he wore a feathered crown. Two armed Emberá-Katío warriors escorted him closely.

What surprised Krugger most was that two of those guards carried muskets.

He had heard of Spanish laws forbidding the sale of firearms to indigenous peoples. How did they obtain them? And more unsettling still—why was the Jaibaná guarded more heavily than the Nokko, who was meant to be the political leader?

As Krugger stepped forward out of instinct, every warrior reacted instantly.

Weapons snapped toward him. Bows were drawn. Spears lowered.The Nokko raised his machete without hesitation.

Sensing disaster, Mateo shouted quickly, calming both sides. Krugger halted and stepped back at once, raising his hands.

Mateo translated urgently, his voice tense.”They say you must not approach the Jaibaná, sir. They believe the spirits of the tribe reside within his body. Touching him is a grave taboo—like cursing a priest.”

Embarrassed, Krugger asked for forgiveness, realizing too late that he had underestimated the importance of the Jaibaná.

When the shaman began to speak, the entire clearing fell silent—even the Nokko lowered his gaze. Mateo stood at Krugger’s side, translating every word with care.

“I have heard the winds that carry your names, warriors of the Great Sea,” the Jaibaná began. His voice was low and rough, a rasping whisper like stones grinding beneath a river’s current. “I know your feet are weary from walking a land that does not know you. I know your veins are filled with the stone the mountain has planted within you.”

He raised one painted hand slowly.

“I can call upon the Jai to loosen their grip. I can give the medicine that returns the light to fading eyes. But understand this well—the mountain does not gift life. The mountain trades it.”

“For every man my hand touches to heal, the weight of his life must be delivered in white salt—grain by grain—until the spirits are satisfied and the balance is restored.”

He paused, his dark eyes fixing on Krugger with an intensity that felt almost prophetic.

“I will make my plants fight against death,” the Jaibaná continued, “but listen carefully, men of iron. I do not command destiny. If a warrior’s spirit has already walked too far into the world of shadows, and the Jal come to reclaim him, my hand will not stop them.”

“I am the bridge,” he said quietly, “but I am not the end of the road. If the earth chooses to devour one of your own, the Jaibaná will not be blamed for what the sky has already written.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“Do you accept the weight of this pact,” he asked, “or do you wish the jaguar to count your bones before dawn?”

Krugger did not understand every word, but he understood enough.

They would pay in salt—far more than he had hoped. His men would likely go without it until they reached Medellín. Yet to him, a few days of tasteless food were nothing compared to the lives of his soldiers.

He nodded solemnly and accepted the pact.

The Nokko then stepped forward, his voice firm and uncompromising.

“To protect our Jaibaná, your sick must be brought here, under our watch. You are not so different from the eura. We cannot trust you completely.”

“You will bring the men and the salt. We will take them away for treatment. During this time, you will remain in your camp. If we see any aggression from your side, we will not hesitate to kill you. Do you understand?”

Krugger met his gaze without flinching.

“I understand,” he replied in a heavy voice. “But I will be just as direct. If too much time passes and we receive no word of our men, we may act as well. Just as you cannot fully trust us, neither can we fully trust you.”

The Nokko’s lips curled into a wide, unsettling smile.

“Then,” he said softly, “the Jal will decide the victor.”

Krugger assumed the Jal was some kind of god or spirit and offered no reply.

With the agreement sealed, he returned to his camp. With the help of his officers, the sick soldiers were carried toward the agreed place. Many resisted weakly, fear and confusion dulling their movements, but they were forced to comply.

By afternoon, the exchange was complete.

Krugger returned to his camp and waited—listening to the sounds of the mountain, counting the hours, and wondering whether the spirits were willing to trade.

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