From the Shores of Eden

by Shelley Penner

  Shusha recovered from his swoon on the soft, sunlit sand, just in time to hear a quick rattle of hoofs and catch a glimpse of white disappearing behind a tall, stony shoulder. He sat up carefully, expecting pain, but felt only the emptiness of hunger. The intense sensuality of the vision left him shaken. He stared at the wind-carved rock of his shelter, washed by long strokes of evening light, and discovered the shadowed curve of back and haunches, the graceful arch of neck. Breathless with inspiration, he scrambled through his meager supplies until he found a small, hardened lump of pale clay, collected from the silty shores of the marsh. He smashed it into fragments and chewed them until they turned to mud in his mouth. Then, using his hands to mask out the form, he spat the paint in short, controlled sprays until the hidden shape emerged from the stone. He rinsed his mouth and took a drink, studying his handiwork. The sun was almost gone, and he felt an urgency to finish before nightfall. He scavenged a chunk of charcoal from his fire and chewed it into a black, bitter paste, then added the line of the back and horns, the neat, sure hoofs and the dark, compassionate eye. Even in the fading light she looked alive. In almost darkness, he planted his hand against the stone and sprayed around it, leaving a pale silhouette, less a signature than a symbol of spiritual bonding.

  * * *

  Like a salmon returning upstream, a man unborn retraced the path of the amaiu-sha. A new sense of self both exalted and humbled him, for he recognized his kinship in the wondrous unity of life, and his insignificance. He saw the world through the eyes of a new-made soul, and every step held fresh insight, unexpected revelation. No pattern seemed random; every detail held universal meaning and sacredness. Where the child had passed unseeing, the man read in every leaf and flower, in every watercourse and massif, the transformative energy of the Creators. The earth vibrated with the energy of their Dreaming, and the seed which solitude had planted in his heart opened the earth to his own dreaming.

  * * *

  This time Shusha knelt alone before the shaman and all the men of the tribe. Where his friends remained he didn’t know, nor was it proper to ask. The Ghost-men, visitors in the spirit realm just like the amaiu-sha, saw him coming as soon as he neared the sacred cave, and came to meet him, falling in beside him silently. Before entering the mouth of the Mother, they stripped him of clothing and belongings and painted his body with red ocher. Now, in the Mother cave, to the relentless accompaniment of chanting and drums, the Ghost-men danced. The power and drama of their movements escalated into passionate intensity until in a final, frenzied climax, they opened veins in their own forearms and surrounded Shusha, letting the blood flow down over his head and shoulders in dark, sticky rivulets until it covered him. His every breath held a metallic tang. Then the drums suddenly ceased and, in a voice like thunder, Buludumas spoke.

  “In the birth blood of the Mother the infant emerged, and in her shelter he grew through childhood. Now the child is dead, and only in the blood of the Father can a man become reborn.”

  The Ghost-men seized Shusha and lifted him to his feet. They marched him off into the dark depths of the cavern, far beyond reach of the firelight. In utter darkness they released him, and all sense of their presence evaporated. Alone in a world that rejected or twisted the ordinary senses, every sound, every rustle of movement seemed magnified a thousand-fold, distorted with echoes and whispers. The air smelled of blood and damp stone, and the faint odor of panic. Shusha calmed himself resolutely and centered his concentration on envisioning the way out. ‘Let your spirit walk ahead of you,’ Rabshen had taught him. ‘Your body may become lost, but the spirit always knows the way.’

  For what seemed like days Shusha groped blindly, sensing his way through dark chambers that moaned eerily with strange, underground winds, and others steamy with the stench of sulfur and the liquid bubbling of hot springs. His feet told him the way, for if he stepped off the smoothness of the narrow, foot-worn path, the roughness of the surrounding stone gave warning. He sensed that if he left the track, he might remain lost forever. At last, in the distance, he detected a faint hint of light. With a sigh of relief, he hurried forward. A small, chilling sound froze him in his tracks, teetering on the edge of an abyss, a deep, yawning funnel of velvety darkness, with far below the faint gurgle and splash of running water. He sank to the ground, shaken, and reflected for a few moments on the lesson.

  Still, the promise of light drew him like a lure. He threaded a narrow path between the wall and the rim of the well, and on the far side discovered that the glimmering radiated from a narrow tunnel just at head height. He pulled himself up and, on his belly, squeezed through a long, constrictive passageway. At the far end, he slid down into a long, oval gallery lit by half a dozen unattended fires. The chamber appeared deserted, yet the walls themselves vibrated with joyous life as herds of deer, antelope and horses thundered across the stony expanse, hunted by wolves, lions and spear-toting men. Every species was represented in some form, from mammoths and wooly rhinos to mice, birds and fish. And the ground on which they ran formed a map of clan territory, depicting mountains and rivers, marked with power symbols showing where the spirit of each species manifested its fertility. Awe forced Shusha’s heart into his throat and strangled his breathing. So this was the sacred nexus of the Mother’s power, the womb from which all species originated. He wandered dazed and spellbound, absorbing the images reverently, until he felt saturated with the life-giving potency emanating from the walls. Eventually he realized the chamber had no other exit.

  He made his way back through the narrow tunnel and stood on the rim of the well, listening to the water below, wondering fearfully. Was this the way? In the end, he had no choice. As he edged along the rim, his foot slipped on the damp rocks and, with a shout of terror, he flew off into unsupportive space, and down, down…plunged into water warm as blood, bitter with minerals and soda. Choking and struggling, he came to the surface, sensing walls rushing past in darkness. The ceiling cracked him on the head and he learned to lie back and let the current have its way. After a brief eternity of hurtling along sightlessly, he began to see dim details of the ceiling as it blurred past inches from his face. The walls of the old lava tunnel appeared smooth as wet mud. The light grew rapidly and abruptly exploded into blinding sunlight. Freefalling through searing white space, the waterfall plunged him feet first into the pool below, where the current caught him once more, sucked him down and rolled him over slowly, then spat him back to the surface. With his eyes burning, adding their own salt to the mineral-laden waters, he stroked shoreward, guided by shouts of welcome and triumphant singing.

  “This day a new man is born, a man of courage, strength and wisdom! This man shall be a boon to the Dan, a great hunter, father of many children, a dancer, a singer, a mystic. The stars shall hear the name of this man!”

  A dozen men reached out to help him from the water, to touch him with reassurance and friendly congratulations. Rabshen smiled and the pride in his eyes thrilled Shusha to the core.

  “My son, today you are a man.”

  * * *

  “You are truly blessed, Shusha, to receive two such powerful visions.” The old shaman perched on a rock ledge wearing his ceremonial headdress of wolf skin decorated with the beak, claws and wings of a hawk. Shusha sat beside him, gazing down on the festivities below. A fire burned in the darkness, lighting the celebrants as they danced out the story of the first initiation. Johara moved amongst them and Kodarosh. Aradumi and Roazinga had not yet returned.

  “The first dream was a message from the Mother. The Rainbow Serpent is her spirit form, which we sometimes see in the rain and the waterfall, just as your spirit shows in your tears and laughter. Its energy surrounds the world and protects it. All living things are surrounded by their spirit energy. Some very wise men can even see it. My mother’s uncle, who was a great shaman, could see the rainbow spirits. He said when animals died, the rainbow spirit remained without fading for several days, especially in cold weather. This is wh
y we burn the animal’s viscera, so its spirit can rise with the smoke.”

  “But how can the dream be a message from the Mother? I thought dreams came from the Sky Father.”

  “The Mother is the material form of the Father. She is the night to his day. She has made a covenant with you, giving you a part of her spirit in a crystal, just as a man gives a part of his spirit into the keeping of his betrothed.”

  Shusha considered this, then asked, “What of the other vision? Daga-dondakeetai found me unworthy. Does this mean I have the blessing of the Mother but the Father rejects me? Am I to remain a child then? Or a woman?”

  “The winged Ancestor in your dream was not Daga-dondakeetai.”

  “Who then?” Powerful dream figures were always manifestations of the Creative Ancestors, and the Bone Dancer was the mystical being most closely tied to the male initiation rites.

  “The Trickster.”

  A long silence ensued while Shusha digested this reply. The soul of each person was composed of a trinity: the ancestral spirit from the Realm of the Unborn, that boundless energy source which existed before the world was created; the totemic spirit, tied to those animal species which guided and nourished an individual throughout life; and the Trickster, the ego-soul, the finite, earthly center of the personality, which often lingered after death to disturb the living, bound by the ties of responsibility, love, kinship and ownership.

  “You must walk with great care, Shusha, for the Trickster is seductive, and one can never know whether the danger comes from within, or without.”

  Again the silence grew lengthy. In the trust between them, Shusha felt comfortable with silence. He studied the campfires of the ancestors, scattered across the night sky like grains of glittering sand in an indigo sea.

  “The white goat of the mountains is a powerful totem. Wise. Balanced. She lives close to celestial realms yet places her feet surely on the earth and treads the rim of the canyon of death without fear. However, the fact that she fed you poison could be a warning…she may herself be a form of the Trickster, and the life she offers may be only another form of death. Know then your secret name, Shusha vesh na Ruanpye, komai na Rabshen, De’wil-Sakan, Pan-amai na ho Koru-danai…Shusha born of Ruanpye, son of Rabshen, Trickster-opposer, Goat-child of the Hawk-clan.”

  * * *

  In a secluded box canyon where knee-deep meadow grass alternated with broad, scarlet splashes of su-lumye, blood flowers, the five initiates sat in the shade of an ancient oak, listening to the teachings of the elders.

  “In the beginning of Creation, the Sky Father divided all things into two parts which would work in opposition and cooperation to generate new potency: the Spirit Realm and the Realm of Living and Dying. And each of these he divided again, so the Spirit Realm included the Realm of the Dead and the Realm of the Unborn, while the Realm of Living and Dying held the duality of earth and sky, day and night, root and stem, female and male.”

  The elders explained the spiritual and community roles of the two genders in detail, stressing the differences. Women came into the world with instinctive understanding of the life-giving powers of the Mother, while men needed to forge a conscious link with the spirit world of the Father through grueling initiation journeys to the threshold of death.

  “A man must not allow himself to become enslaved by fear. But fear is not a material enemy one can fight with knife or spear. It hides in the shadows of a man’s soul and ambushes him when he feels most vulnerable. How then does one combat this foe?”

  The young men regarded Buludumas wordlessly, bound to silence for the duration of their training period. Instead, one of the elders answered.

  “By facing what he most fears…facing it with courage. By knowing the enemy so well, it becomes no longer an enemy.”

  “And what does a man most fear?”

  “Death…and pain.”

  “Loss of manhood.”

  “Failure.”

  Over the next six days the elders revealed many secrets of adult life to the young men. The initiates learned the Julalai na Ashal, the secret names of plant and animal, sung in their places of potency to encourage increase or decrease in species fertility. They practiced the techniques of self-hypnosis and dream travelling, while the elders pricked them with thorns and spear points, testing the depth of their unconscious state. At night the men sang and danced out the stories of the Horse Tribe and the Lion-men, of Doogamondo and the Star-sisters, revealing the nature of death as a greater initiation into another form of existence. By day they rested and told more stories, illustrated by diagrams and relief sculptures drawn in the earth.

  “During the Time of Creation there lived a Creator Being named Modyoolan.” Buludumas incised three intersecting lines into the earth to represent the Ancestor, then added three concentric circles around him to show the emanation of his creative powers. “Modyoolan laid down many potencies in the earth” — again, concentric rings showed the potencies, scattered around the figure of the Ancestor — “but his manhood remained covered by a hood of woman-skin which blinded it, so it could not see the path it opened for the Spirits of the Unborn, and much of his power was wasted. Whenever we see plants or animals which look twisted and deformed, or growing in inappropriate places, we know they are the wasted seed of Modyoolan.” Crooked lines radiated out from the circles of potency.

  “One day, as Modyoolan rested beside the river, he saw Fashali, the daughter of Badocaran, digging lily bulbs along the edge of the water. Fashali looked very beautiful, and Modyoolan felt lonely. His blind manhood could not see that she was too young. He laid her gently on the grass and opened a path for the Spirits, but she cried out, for she was not yet a woman. When he saw the pain he had caused, and the blood, he realized what he had done, and he fled in shame and fear of Badocaran’s anger.

  “Fashali’s father and brothers hunted Modyoolan for many miles and many days, until they cornered him here in this canyon. Badocaran’s anger was great, but Modyoolan laid down his weapons and would not fight. When Badocaran saw Modyoolan bravely awaiting punishment, he recognized that the young man was not evil, and that he truly felt sorry for the harm he had caused. Badocaran ordered his sons to kneel and make a platform, and he threw Modyoolan upon this living altar and grasped his manhood as if to cut it off. Still Modyoolan did not resist, though he closed his eyes in dread. Badocaran felt moved to compassion and admiration, but the attack on his daughter demanded retribution. So he twisted the woman skin and drew it up and sliced it off cleanly, leaving Modyoolan’s manhood intact, but no longer blind. Wherever the blood of Fashali or Modyoolan soaked into the ground, the red flowers, the su-lumye, grow today. Then Badocaran built a sweat lodge beside the river and purified Modyoolan by fire and by water, after which he took the young man to a place of seclusion and taught him the proper ways of living amongst people. He told Modyoolan that if he came to the vada once he had healed, he could make a betrothal promise to Fashali, and could become her husband once she became a woman.”

  * * *

  When sunset turned the water the color of blood, Ruanpye, the mother of Shusha, knelt in the sand by the river shore, not far from the halavada. On either side of her, the mothers of the other initiates waited likewise. The Day of Returning had arrived. In camp, visitors from neighboring clans—the Bukadanai, the Gratdanai and the Mindanai—helped with preparations for the coming ceremony. Glad cries of welcome and celebration rang out, but the five mothers remained apart, their skin and hair grey with the ashes of mourning. A bevy of young girls from visiting clans attended them, kept a fire going to warm them and offered them water and food, which they refused. For Coranu, this play of grief simply remained a part of the Returning ritual. She had four strong, healthy children, with Roazinga the oldest. But for Ruanpye this grieving felt real. Two girl children she had lost, one to sickness and one to a lion too old and crippled to hunt his normal prey. Another had died at birth. Her eldest son, Elio-juran, failed to return from sh
a-haunjo. Of the five children she had birthed, only Shusha remained.

  As night wore on the sounds of celebration reached a wild, tumultuous crescendo. Listening to the chants and the shrilling of bone whistles, Ruanpye knew when the dancing finally ended, and when the men chased the novices from vadu to vadu, bathing them in the smoke of each hearth fire while chanting prayers of final purification. She knew when the battle against the forces of darkness reached a climax, with the men shouting in unison, throwing a fusillade of spears into the night, over the bowed heads of the kneeling initiates. When she heard the scuffle of approaching footsteps, she braced herself for the finality of loss. The children and female relatives of the boys gathered, moaning and weeping in mock grief as the new men stood before their mothers.

  Ruanpye studied Shusha. He looked pale, slumped with exhaustion, thin from fasting and restricted diet, bearing the half-healed wounds of initiatic death and circumcision. And she sensed changes in him that went far deeper than these surface signs. Her boy-child remained dead, forever lost, but she honored her son reborn as the heroic survivor of an epic journey of the spirit.

  * * *

  Early in the morning two days later, the clans gathered in the drifting mist off the river, the novice men and their fathers to the forefront. Five men of the visiting clans stepped forward, each in turn, and presented a girl child, ranging in age from three to twelve years. Sinjan of the Mindanai approached Shusha and Rabshen. Shusha knew Sinjan from past gatherings…a likeable man with a keen eye and a dry sense of humor. And he knew Sinjan’s daughter too, Pan-Dora, Goat-Woman. With a sinking sensation he recalled his only encounter with her. He had visited the Mindanai halavada with his father as a witness to another betrothal, that of his father’s sister’s daughter. Shusha had come upon a group of children taunting another, one who stood bowed in shame, unresisting. He had chased her tormentors away, and knelt to dry her tears, but the sight of her face had shocked and repelled him. It seemed the face of an animal, the eyes too large and set too wide apart, the upper lip cleft like the mouth of a rabbit or a sheep. He comforted her, pretending not to notice her deformity. Now, three years later, she stood beside her father, gazing at Shusha with eager, worshipful eyes.