“Shusha is a gentle and considerate lover. He does his best to please.”
A storm of emotion darkened Johara’s face. He rolled away abruptly, taut with anger. “You should have been mine!”
Kitana suppressed a contemptuous smile. She stroked his chest soothingly and sang her siren song. “I am yours, Johara. I may be bound to him, but only for you does my spirit yearn and my body ache with hunger.”
He responded instantly, pulling her into a fierce embrace, his own passion rising to illustrate her empty words. “But how can I bear to see you every day with him, knowing you belong to him, knowing you can never truly be mine?”
“But I could, Johara, someday. If anything should happen to Shusha, I would become free to choose a new husband, would I not? You are my diveni, my destiny.”
* * *
The baby’s cries grew indignant with hunger. Pan-Dora rocked him and tried to soothe him with a rag of hide soaked in broth. Resentment simmered in her heart, for Kitana neglected even this, the one chore Pan-Dora could not accomplish in her stead. Shusha seemed blind to Kitana’s faults. Inside Pan-Dora, Shusha’s womanhood ached for reunion. She fought against jealousy, struggled not to hate her sister-wife, but the wails of a neglected child hardened her anger into shards of crystal. Pan-Dora knew how it felt to remain unloved.
Shusha and Aradumi had returned from the hunt with a yearling calf. Pan-Dora could see them at the edge of camp, butchering the meat and apportioning it amongst those to whom they had obligations. Hunters never ate of their own kills. To do so would risk the wrath of the animal’s spirit. By accepting gifts of meat, other clan members incurred the responsibility of reciprocation, and thus the skillful and generous hunter received shares from animals to which he owed no blood-debt.
Shusha laid a bundle of venison and deer hide near the hearth and settled beside Pan-Dora with a frown. His son sucked at the rag and fussed unhappily.
“Where is Kitana?”
“Picking berries.” Pan-Dora voiced no complaint. A cleft lip and a hole in her palate made pronunciation difficult, and she hated the nasal whine of her own voice.
Shusha watched her cuddle his son and felt an unexpected wave of tenderness. Her love for his child by another woman seemed clear in every movement, every croon of comfort. With her head down, face hidden behind a veil of hair, her lush, womanly body called to his. Shusha felt a stirring in his depths. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder gently. Startled, she glanced up, wide-set eyes fawn like, painfully vulnerable. Her upper lip quivered, and Shusha could see her teeth through the cleft. His gut twisted and his manhood shriveled.
“I’ll go find Kitana,” he said, suddenly glad of an excuse to escape.
But the message of his touch imprinted itself on Pan-Dora’s heart. With every cell in her body she loved him, had loved him since the day he rescued her from her tormentors and comforted her like an ordinary child. Pan-Dora had never been considered ordinary. The Dani believed her to be an incarnation of one of the Ancestors, those half-human, half-animal beings who dreamed the world into existence. Other children received hugs and discipline from their elders, but Pan-Dora was treated with distant respect, while the secret ridicule of her peers kept her humble. Most girl children were betrothed before the age of six. By the time she reached twelve, Pan-Dora despaired of ever getting chosen. She was too ugly, her status and destiny too intimidating and ambiguous. When her father told her he intended to present her to Shusha, she felt sick with dread and hope, sure he would refuse her. The happiest moment in her life had been when she swallowed his woman-hood and felt it nesting safely in her heart. For three years she waited for her time of initiation, cherishing his spirit within her, unaware that he had taken another woman.
Pan-Dora’s initiation differed greatly from Shusha’s. For her, it began with a hollow cramping in her womb, the first pangs of birth-giving. Her mother and aunts hurried her out of the village to a secluded canyon sacred to women, a place of female potency. In Col-Dorashan, the Valley of Womanhood, Pan-Dora, who had remained a part of her mother since conception, gave birth to her woman-self. While her menstrual flow lasted, she remained secluded, resting and meditating, letting her childhood bleed into the sacred earth. Then all her female relatives gathered to celebrate her rebirth into womanhood. For another seven days they feasted and danced and told stories of love and fidelity, betrayal and retribution. Messengers went out to the scattered villages of the Dani, telling that a new woman had been born. They built a dai-lumye-vadu in a spot between men’s country and women’s country, and there the wise women instructed her in the secrets and responsibilities of womanhood.
“At one time,” they said, “women needed to work constantly. They never had any time to rest or celebrate the life of the Mother within them. The men sometimes hunted for meat, but mostly they just laid about, playing games and sleeping while their wives did all the work. The women grew very tired, especially in their time of blood. They complained to the Mother, and she grew angry. In the form of Ashtarth, the wandering star, she spread her wings of flame and bled her woman’s blood over the earth. The waters turned red with her blood and all the fish died. The ground turned red with her blood and gave birth to scorpions and flies. Wherever her blood touched a man, his skin turned to open sores, and many died of sickness. Now men fear the power of women in their time of blood and allow us this period of rest to celebrate our womanhood, as long as we remain apart. For a man to cross the path of a woman in her menses, or to touch her, could bring all manner of disasters and diseases upon him, and it remains our duty to protect them from the potency of our blood. Likewise, during this time, we must drink only water someone else has drawn for us, since touching the river might turn it to blood and kill the fish.”
Instruction went on for many days, until the young men arrived with Shusha. Then Pan-Dora underwent a purification ritual. First the women bathed her in the smoke of green willow to ensure that her child-spirit passed safely into the spirit world. Then they bathed her in water drawn from the river, to ensure that all dangerous traces of First Blood were removed. Afterwards, they left her alone in the dai-lumye-vadu, where the new woman would surrender her virginity to her betrothed. Pan-Dora had waited eagerly, listening to the young men celebrating beside the fire outside, but not until darkness hid her from his sight did Shusha enter the dai-lumye-vadu. Even blind, her heart recognized him, for his touch made her body sing, and when his manhood filled her core, her spirit burst into flame, climbing on a column of smoke until it touched the stars.
For seven days thereafter, she played the part of the receptive lover, accepting gifts in exchange for offering her womb as a vessel to nurture new life. But she received few male visitors. The old shaman gave her an amulet woven of goat hair and coupled with her in hopes that her ancestral spirit would bestow some of its potency on him. Two of her cousins honored her, one because his father impressed the duty on him, the other because he would couple with anything that stood still long enough. The morning of the eighth day, Pan-Dora woke to find her father looming over her. He plunged his spear into the earth between her legs, then gestured for her to rise and follow. Three days later, Sinjan delivered Pan-Dora and the spear into Shusha’s care.
* * *
Exhausted from crying, little Minshu finally settled into restless slumber. Pan-Dora began preparing the evening meal. She didn’t look up when Shusha returned, his First Woman following meekly a few paces behind. Kitana went directly to the blanket cradle and snatched up Minshu. She stuffed her left nipple into his mouth to silence his startled screams and he locked on, guzzling urgently, tiny hands clenched in her hair.
* * *
Wishing to remain unseen, Pan-Dora hesitated where the morning mist along the shore of the bay gave way to sunlight. She felt tired this early in the morning, for the recent move to the winter camp at Minta Elleshar had proven exhausting. The air felt chill with approaching winter, ominously still now the birds had m
ostly flown. She scurried across open dunes covered with tufts of coarse beach grass and plunged into the sheltering forest. Only Lintato knew her destination, for the old wise woman’s advice had sent her on this journey. Close to her pounding heart she clutched the charm the old woman gave her.
Following the river, Pan-Dora hiked high into the mountains. At times the water took a route she could not follow, forcing her to clamber up steep, mossy bluffs and over old rockslides to find it again. At last, near midmorning, she came to the place where the headwaters of the river poured in a creamy torrent from a high precipice into the deep vee of a lush, hanging valley, Col-Dorashan. Places like this existed within a half day’s travel from each traditional encampment of the Danai, places that held potent fertility magic. Pan-Dora drank deeply of the water and bathed in the pool at the base of the waterfall. Then, lying naked on the cushioning moss, she felt her roots go deep into the Mother, deep into the center of time and being. She dreamed of a baby growing inside her, cradled as she felt cradled in the Mother’s warm darkness, lifting face and arms to the light of the Father like a flower seeking sunlight. She spread her legs and sent a prayer to the Ancestors, that they open the pathway of life within her. From the depths of her soul she prayed to the Father, that he send an unborn spirit to follow the path to her womb as she had followed the river.
* * *
At the point of release, Shusha suddenly let his bowstring go slack and cocked his head to listen. The voice of the wind whispered, “Malla, malla, gana ka tai malla, take me to my mother.” He rose abruptly, oblivious to the sounds of startlement from Aradumi and the elk they had stalked all morning. Without a word, Shusha turned and loped homeward. When he arrived at the kovada, he found Kitana scowling and disgruntled, because for once Pan-Dora had disappeared and left all the work to her. Minshu cried inconsolably, Kitana’s gathering had turned up no more than a handful of roots and mussels, and the fire smoldered without heat, leaving dinner only half cooked and the cook seething with frustration. Shusha should have taken note of her mood but, as usual, desire struck him blind at the sight of her. He gave Minshu a rag to suck on, then drew Kitana inside the vadu and closed the door-flap. Wordlessly, he attempted to embrace her, but she pushed him away.
“Woman, I have heard the voice of our unborn child on the wind. He asks to be taken to his mother. I must open a pathway for him.”
“Then open it somewhere else. I have no desire to grow fat and pregnant with another squalling brat.”
“But…Kitana…”
“Go and lie with that goat-faced Pan-Dora if you can find her. She is your wife too. Why should I have to do all the work?”
Shusha stiffened. For an instant, seeing his dark, expressionless face, she realized she had erred. But hurting him made her feel better, so she turned away, gambling on her ability to seduce him later.
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon, Shusha sat beside the fire, watching his First Wife with wary eyes. He studied her as he would study an unfamiliar animal. Uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach. He wished Pan-Dora would return, for when he felt troubled, it was her silent, uncritical attention that reassured him. The last of the foragers returned as evening approached, but when he inquired, no one had seen her all day. Suddenly he viewed himself with the same critical eye he had turned upon Kitana, and he became convinced Pan-Dora had run away, perhaps back to her father. Armed with only her digging stick, she would remain defenseless against any large predators. He gathered up his weapons and set off in search of her.
At the edge of the kovada, his grandmother pointed toward the mountains and said, “The spirit, like the river, returns to its source.” Following this cryptic directive, he headed upstream. In the depths of the coastal forest, twilight came early, but he managed to find signs of Pan-Dora’s passing. He heard her coming before he saw her, rustling through drifts of brittle leaves. She stepped onto the trail and stopped, eyes widening at the sight of him. An errant breeze whispered in Shusha’s ear, “Malla, malla.”
* * *
Shusha did not return to the vadu that night. When Kitana woke alone, she did feel a moment of uncertainty, but not until the next morning did she fully realize the consequences of her mistake. Shortly after dawn, Shusha strode through the kovada with Pan-Dora trailing, one hand on the butt of his spear in a gesture reserved for only the most trusted and favored of wives. She glowed as if a lamp had been lighted within her. They stopped before Kitana and Shusha stated formally, “Kitana, you are now Second Wife to Pan-Dora.”
Kitana blanched, speechless with shock. For a brief instant her expression turned to animal rage, then she gained control and put on a pretty pout. “But Shusha…surely you would not shame me before the entire clan? If this is punishment for yesterday, I am sorry. It will never happen again, I promise.”
“I am not punishing you. This is the way it should have been from the beginning. I gave my woman power into Pan-Dora’s safe-keeping long before I met you. She has acted as a wife to me in every way but one, and that fault remains mine. You have acted as a wife to me in one way only, and that you yesterday refused. The wrong has been righted, and so it shall remain.” Shusha walked away, followed by looks of immortal love and poisonous venom.
* * *
“I want him dead!”
Kitana swatted away Johara’s groping hands.
“Do you hear me? I want him dead and left on the ground to rot, with vultures picking his bones and flies crawling through his empty eye sockets!”
Johara tried to soothe her with a gentle, amorous touch, but she rejected him with a shrug. He sighed and gave up.
“Well, what do you want me to do? I can’t challenge him without cause, and I won’t just murder him…”
“No…no, that would be too easy. I want him to suffer. I want his soul. I want him to realize his spirit is forsaken before he dies. I want him to know that he and all his seed are cursed for all time.”
Johara frowned, repelled by her hatred. “Shusha is not an unkind or dishonorable man. How has he wronged you to make you hate him so?”
“He has insulted and displaced my destiny, therefore I have become the instrument of his fate.” She whirled to face her lover, suddenly oozing seduction. “You must help me. You have said many times that I should have been yours. Help me destroy Shusha and I will be yours.”
“What are you planning to do?”
She smiled sweet poison. “Shusha is about to fall distressingly ill.” She turned away, frowning thoughtfully. “But first I must prepare.”
* * *
The flint node began to show its character as flakes leaped away from the bite of the hammer stone. Shusha paused to study the result. He set aside his tool and groped absently for another, encountering instead a razor shard of flint. He grunted and sucked his damaged thumb, then wiped it carelessly on a rag of hide and went on with his task.
* * *
After four days, Johara once again spotted their secret signal. A short time later he hurried to meet Kitana. His desire for her had become overshadowed by a growing fear. He wanted no part of her sorcery, but to refuse could make him a target for her enmity. That she had power, he didn’t question. She exhaled it with every heated breath.
When he reached their trysting place, she ran to meet him, eyes glowing feverishly. “I have it,” she whispered. “I have everything I need.” She knelt and with trembling hands unfolded a blood-spotted rag of hide to reveal a small bundle of dark hairs, a dried ball of clay mixed with her own spit, and a spoon of bone, its handle ground to a sharp point. “Tomorrow,” she intoned, “watch him. When he leaves for the hunt, come to me.”
* * *
From the edge of the forest the sorceress and her companion watched as Shusha set off the next day with Aradumi. Kitana quickly wound a braided string of hair around the spoon, her pointing finger, the ball of clay, and a scrap of hide stained with Shusha’s blood, binding them all together. She
aimed the bone, closing one eye to sight down the length of her arm at Shusha’s retreating figure. She sucked air loudly through pursed lips, head swaying back and forth in a serpentine motion as if drawing against a resisting force. With a thrill of horror, Johara saw Shusha hesitate, almost stumble, then put a hand to his head as if dizzy. Aradumi said something questioning and Shusha shook his head, then shrugged and went on, moving out of sight behind the trees. Smiling triumphantly, Kitana held up the clay ball. “I have captured the soul of his blood.” She moved out onto the trail and examined Shusha’s tracks, then stabbed the sharpened bone into one of his footprints, pounding and stamping it deeper until it lay completely embedded. She carefully wrapped the clay ball in kivote leaves and buried the bundle at the foot of a tall snag.
“Shusha is a dead man.”
* * *
Shusha retired early that night, feeling unwell. He woke sometime later feeling hot and suffocated. Pan-Dora snuggled close at his side as Kitana had never done. He extricated himself carefully from her embrace and slipped out into the cool darkness. His head throbbed in time with his laboring heart, and the rhythm seemed strangely unfamiliar. The clear voice of the sea called to him, and he wandered restlessly down along the shoreline. On impulse, he dove in, plunging through the chill surf, feeling the strange heat in his blood slowly wash away. When he emerged his headache and fever were gone, but a brooding shadow seemed to hang over him, sensed but unseen.
From the Shores of Eden Page 14