“I have witnessed the transformation of a boy into a man,” Sinjan said. “My daughter, Pan-Dora, born twelve summers ago, I offer in promise to Shusha.”
Dismay formed a cold lump in the pit of Shusha’s stomach as Rabshen nodded and replied, “I find this arrangement acceptable.”
The fathers pressed the youngsters to their knees, facing one another. Rabshen placed a red clay cup before his son and poured a little water into it. Shusha wanted to beg him to remove it, appalled by the thought of sharing a marriage bed with Pan-Dora. But he could not so dishonor his father, nor insult Sinjan. Rabshen produced the sacrificial knife, and Sinjan used it to cut a lock of Pan-Dora’s hair. In silence Shusha offered his hands for the ritual. With the point of the blade Rabshen punctured both Shusha’s palms and laid the curl of hair over the wounds. Shusha clasped his hands together above the betrothal cup and let his blood drip down to mix with the water as he spoke the words of the betrothal pledge.
“By this blood I make a covenant with you, that you may eat at my campfire in the halavada of the Korudanai. I pledge the skill of my hands to your comfort, the seed of my manhood to your womb, and my strength of body to your defense.”
Rabshen offered the cup to Sinjan, who held it to his daughter’s lips.
“Drink of the blood of your husband, that he may be bound in defense of your life and your children.”
She drained the cup.
Rabshen pressed a ring of cooked skin to Shusha’s lips. “This is the woman-hood which was taken from you. It holds all the power and strength of your woman spirit. In pain and blood you surrendered it in order to become a man, but it still remains bound to you, and thus represents a danger. An enemy, a sorcerer, might use it to curse you, to steal your strength and twist your spirit. Entrust it therefore into the care of this woman, that she may safeguard it in the center of her womanhood.”
Shusha shuffled forward on his knees and pressed his mouth against Pan-Dora’s. He fought revulsion as her strange lips moved against his. The ring passed between them and she swallowed it, binding them together irrevocably. A part of his soul now dwelt within her, giving her a power over him that no one else could ever hold. Her eyes lingered on Shusha’s lovingly. He pitied her. His sense of dread shamed him.
* * *
The tide turned as it always did and ranks of foam-crested waves once more lashed the black sand and cobble beach, pounding the skeletons of long-dead sea creatures into finer and finer particles. The sea breeze, tangy with the taste of salt and the scent of an approaching squall, pressed damp, inquisitive hands against Shusha’s face. He thrust his nose deeper into the fresh folds of the wind and drew its essence into his lungs with relish. In two days they would leave on their spring migration, and he wanted to carry with him as much of the sea as his mind and spirit could hold.
Like most hunter-gatherer people, the Korudanai remained semi-nomadic, moving with the changing seasons. Following a two-year cycle, their spring migration took them north to summer in the high mountains at Koru Col, until leaf-fall sent them south to set up the kovada, the winter camp, in the wooded shelter of the foothills where the snows gathered less deep and the winds felt less brutal. The first buds of spring signaled a move to the eastern lake country, to summer amongst the guardian trees shading the shores of Seeva na Serjanna, the Lake of the White Swan. Then when autumn gilded the leaves, the Korudanai set off once more for the coast, to enjoy the mild climate and shelter of Minta Elleshar, Seal Bay.
Shusha loved every aspect of the Mother’s beauty, but the wild solitude of the seacoast called to a part of him so deep and primal he remained barely aware of it. A fragment of abalone shell winked at him from between two rocks. Hardly bigger than his thumbnail, it reflected all the colors of the sea: ultramarine, seaweed emerald, storm grey, misty pearl and moon-shadow black. He rubbed it clean and tucked it into a small pouch he wore around his neck. That pouch contained a shard of crystal with a rainbow at its heart, a tuft of white goat hair, a feather as blue as a cloudless sky, a lump of charcoal from his father’s hearth fire, a white stone bearing the symbol of his totemic name, a blood-encrusted lock of Pan-Dora’s hair, and now a fragment of abalone shell…personal symbols of power from which he drew strength and inspiration.
“Shusha!”
Johara crunched across the shingle towards him.
“It is decided,” Johara said. “We leave tomorrow at sunrise…Kodarosh, Aradumi and myself. Are you coming with us?”
Shusha gazed out to sea, his eyebrows knotted. “Do you think it is wise, this plan of yours, Johara? There could be reprisals. We could bring trouble down on the entire clan, maybe even start a war. Perhaps we should first consult our elders.”
Johara spat. “You are such an old woman, Shusha. The Korudanai have stolen wives from the Latt-moosha since the world began. The Fish-eaters are as weak and stupid as their favorite prey.” In truth, the last raid happened decades ago and the Latt-moosha remained formidable warriors. “We could catch up with the clan before they reach the top of the pass.”
“But why take the risk of stealing a woman? You are already betrothed. You have only to wait. Are you so eager for the burdens of married life?”
“I feel eager for the pleasures a husband knows with his wife. Mahra-sopon won’t become a woman for seven years or more. Besides, I weary of sitting silent in council. The men still treat us like boys. Once we wed, they will have to give us a voice.”
“And what would you say, Johara? Is your wisdom and experience greater than that of the elders? You may speak, but who will listen?”
Johara glared at Shusha and considered walking away. But he had conceived of this raid himself and he needed Shusha to back him if Kodarosh tried to usurp leadership. Aradumi remained too ready to compromise for the sake of peace. Shusha, on the other hand, would stand fast for what he believed right, even to his own detriment. Johara both admired and scorned him for it.
“And what about that goat-faced bride of yours, Shusha? Do you await her initiation with eagerness? Would you not like a pretty second wife to stir your blood when Pan-Dora leaves you cold?” Johara grinned. Shusha just shrugged and turned away. Johara ground his teeth and snarled, “We leave at dawn. Come if you want.”
* * *
They made their camp in a hidden grotto tucked away in a fold of the sea cliffs and crept through the thick coastal forest to study the village of the Latt-moosha, an arrangement of permanent structures at the edge of the trees where the river ran into the sea. After several days of spying, the young men agreed that evening would provide the best time for a raid, just before sunset when the women bathed unguarded, though well within shouting distance of help. Shielded from view by a thick stand of willows, the bathing pool remained only partially visible from the village.
Six women strolled down the path to the pool the next evening. Proudly in the lead strode a willow-thin, black haired beauty who stole Shusha’s attention so he barely noticed the noisy chatterers who followed a few paces behind. Hidden in the brush, the young men watched as the women disrobed on the rocky shore and waded into the river, splashing and laughing noisily. Johara and Kodarosh signaled their choices silently, and Shusha felt elated when neither chose the raven-haired leader. The young men aimed their concentration, visualizing the attack, the defense and counter moves, the moment of capture. “Go!” They exploded from the bushes like young lions, each intent on his own prey.
A grandmother turned, open-mouthed in shock, and Kodarosh clubbed her with the butt of his spear to prevent her crying out. Without pausing, he charged into the water, grabbed a slender, tawny-haired girl by the shoulder and punched her in the stomach. She folded neatly over his shoulder as he bent to lift her. An older woman, probably the girl’s mother or aunt, lunged at him, beating him about the head. He slashed her throat with the side of his hand and she fell back, choking.
Shusha’s target turned just as he plunged into the water behind her. She st
arted to scream, so he grabbed a fistful of dark hair and thrust her under water. She struggled, raking his arm with her fingernails, but he held her under and dragged her toward shore. Aradumi had pinned a short, plump girl from behind, and now wrestled her shoreward. Her eyes waxed like full moons above the hand clamped over her mouth. Shusha hauled his prize out of the water, choking and half drowned, in no shape to cry for help. He thrust her toward the trees, snatching up an armful of the women’s clothing along the way. The old grandmother lay nearby, her grey hair matted with blood. Aradumi and Kodarosh waited just ahead. Shusha glanced back. Johara stood hip-deep in the water, empty handed. His prey had ducked underwater and disappeared before he could reach her.
“Johara! Come!”
A faint cry rang out from the village. The young men retreated, hauling the captives along forcefully. Driven by an urgent feeling that success had come too easily and disaster followed close behind, their passage through the woods became brutally swift. Thorns and switches slashed at tender, naked flesh, and bare feet bruised against sharp stones. The women stumbled and limped, but their captors kept them moving. If pursuit came close behind, darkness would soon make tracking impossible. By the time the Latt-moosha reached the kovada, the Korudanai would have travelled halfway to the mountains.
In the last glimmering of dusk, the raiding party paused briefly to leash the women and allow them to dress. Then on they ran by starlight, dragging the miserable, frightened captives. They climbed the headland and turned northward, travelling over bare stone as much as possible to leave no tracks, or wading along rocky stream beds until their feet went numb with cold.
* * *
Dawn revealed a threatening sky. They stopped briefly to rest. The young men were used to running long distances, but the captive women collapsed, exhausted. Shusha crouched with his spear across his knees, assessing his prize in the cold, gray light. Her bosom heaved attractively and sweat dampened the fine hairs around her face into curling tendrils. She said her name was Kitana…in the language of her people, which was not unlike the language of the Dan, it meant Wildfire.
“Untie me,” she demanded. Then she smiled, her mouth full and sweet as a ripe berry. A faint musk arose from her like the scent of passion. Her eyes looked dark, yet bright with smoldering coals. “Please? The ropes are hurting me. I won’t run. I promise.” She rubbed against Shusha seductively. “I have dreamed of you and waited a long time. Untie me and let me show you what we did together.”
Shusha studied her thoughtfully. One should not speak of dreams lightly or untruthfully. Dreams embodied the power of the Father, the power of spirit potential. She held up her wrists guilelessly. Shusha checked and her skin did look red and raw, but only because she had struggled to loosen her bindings. He tightened them.
“My father will kill you for this,” she spat.
Shusha grinned. “The Korudanai leave no trail. By the time the sun crosses the sky twice, we will climb into the mountains and your father will never find us.”
The three girls exchanged glances, the blood draining from their faces. Their mothers used tales of the Korudanai to frighten young girls into staying close to home. Johara eyed his companions and the women they claimed, and his mouth tightened into a thin, bitter line.
“I am the leader of this raid. First choice of the captives should be mine.”
“You had first choice,” Shusha answered mildly. “You chose the one who escaped.”
Aradumi suppressed a grin, but Kodarosh made no attempt to hide his amusement. Johara seethed. This was not the way he had pictured their return, with himself empty-handed and humiliated.
“I claim your woman, Shusha. She is mine by right of leadership.”
Aradumi’s moon-faced wench held no appeal for Johara, and he knew better than to make any claims against Kodarosh. Shusha rose and folded his arms in a gesture of denial. After a moment, Johara looked away, shamed.
“The raid was my idea,” he whined. “You didn’t even want to come.”
“But I did come, and I did not allow my quarry to escape and endanger us all. This woman is too boney and she stinks of fish, but she is mine, and I am not willing to give her up.”
Revenge glittered in Kitana’s eyes. She would not soon forget Shusha’s insults, nor the way he had nearly drowned her. She studied Johara appraisingly, waiting to see if he would fight for her. He snatched up his weapons and stamped away. Kodarosh tugged imperiously at his leash and his new woman rose wearily.
“Get up,” Shusha ordered Kitana. “We are leaving.”
She sprawled insolently. He dragged her to her feet, and she shrugged his hand off. Her glare could have burned holes in solid rock.
* * *
Buludumas sat with Rabshen, watching him lash arrow points to shafts with dampened sinew. The toolmaker worked with deft experience while his eyes followed the swaying figure of his son’s First Wife. With a gathering basket on her hip, she moved through the halavada, head held high, greeting no one.
“She has a stone in her heart,” Buludumas said quietly.
Rabshen nodded. “She is not good for him. And she treats Pan-Dora like a slave.”
“Yes. And Shusha treats Pan-Dora like a sister. I have heard that he fulfilled his duty well enough at her initiation, but I do not think he has touched her since. It is not good to deny a woman this way.”
“He seems obsessed with Kitana. She plays him like a fish on the hook, and he doesn’t even see it.”
“She has the smell of sorcery about her.” The old shaman frowned.
Kitana disappeared downstream in the direction of the berry thickets.
“Perhaps the wise women could prepare a love spell for Pan-Dora.”
Rabshen snorted. “Do you honestly think Pan-Dora could attract Shusha away from Kitana, even with a love spell?”
“Pan-Dora remains Shusha’s destiny. When he told me of the goat-woman in his vision, I knew the Mother meant Pan-Dora for his life mate. A love spell could do no harm.”
* * *
At the edge of the berry thickets, Kitana found a bush laden with rose blossoms. She picked a handful of silky petals and rubbed them over her cheeks and throat and down between her breasts. Enveloped in the intoxicating scent, she moved deeper into the bushes and began picking. Like a child, she ate as many berries as she put into her basket. She used this chore as an excuse to wander off alone, for Kitana preferred to avoid work as much as possible. She heard the call of a lark nearby and paused to listen. She glanced around to make certain she remained hidden from view, then parted the berry canes, revealing a secret path. Supple as a snake, she slipped through the thorny tangle until she came to a cleared hollow lined with moss and crushed, wilted ferns. She stripped off her dress and stretched sinuously, reveling in the warmth of the summer sunshine. Something large rustled through the brush behind her and she whirled with a gasp of mock fear, then sighed as Johara stepped into view.
“Oh, I thought you were an old he-bear!” she teased.
He growled and glowered at her. “You didn’t answer me.”
“I saw no need. I knew such a worthy hunter would have no trouble finding what he sought.”
He grabbed her roughly, crushed her against his chest and began nibbling at the root of her neck.
“Perhaps I will act the bear and eat you. You smell so good.”
“If you hunger, eat.”
She drew him down onto the bed of ferns, tugging at his clothing ungently. For a short while they writhed and convulsed, making low sounds of predatory urgency as they struggled to become one. In an exhilarating discharge of energies, they climaxed together, then immediately withdrew into their separate solitudes. Kitana relaxed with her eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of faint breezes running ghostly hands over her exposed body. When Johara’s fingers began exploring the silk of her shoulder they seemed crude, almost obscene.
“Did you use the kivote I gave you?”
&nbs
p; Johara snorted. “You are an evil woman, Kitana.”
“You got to lead the dance as you wished, did you not?”
“Yes, but Kodarosh got so sick, I feared he might die.”
“And why should you fear his death? Then you could lead all the dances.”
She held herself rigid as Johara’s touch wandered to her breast, slowly massaging it in a way that sent shivers up her spine. She hated her body’s betrayal, her inability to control its responses.
“Does Shusha make you feel like this, Kitana?”
Her mouth twisted as she recalled the conversation she shared with her husband last night, not for the first time. “Why don’t you challenge for leadership sometimes? The young men respect you. They only follow Kodarosh out of fear.” Shusha replied, “I have no wish to create conflict and resentment amongst the clan.” Had he proven a willing tool for Kitana’s ambition, she might have forgotten his past insults, and the fact that amongst her own people she had held a place of honor as a sorceress in training, betrothed to marry the elderly dai-amon. The old man would not have lived long; she could have become queen. Kitana felt a savage urge to rip Johara’s throat out with her bare teeth. But he was not the main focus of her spite, and it made no sense to destroy a tool so carefully crafted.
From the Shores of Eden Page 13