The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  “He must be scared in there, so dark and alone,” she had thought, and she sang to him to comfort him. It made him happy. When she came again she brought her sweet root bread from dinner and found a hole in the trunk of the tree to drop it. She sang again to the baby, telling him of simple things — her day, the way the blue flowers bloomed between the budding cunarul grass plants, the wild ducklings that swam upon the lakes, her mother’s silly frown that made her face look like a squished squash, her father’s fabulous stories — all the things she found beautiful and fascinating.

  Sometimes she sang to the baby at sunset, telling him of the stars, one by one, as they opened their eyes and the shape of the moon as it rose. At sunset she was often missed, however. That was the time of many chores and stories from their father as they worked inside their house. Sunrise was an easier adventure, and a more beautiful song — for she loved the colors the morning spirits painted in the sky. She could be back in time to gather the goytew’s eggs and feathers or sweep the house while her sisters did their chores. When she was late, she could say she had been relieving herself. It was always believed. Everyone was too busy in the mornings to watch her closely.

  It took her many days after the Trintoa to get the courage to go back alone. In her mind, the shaman waited for her there, his face fierce and angry. He had not told her parents, but he watched her sometimes when she wandered the village or played with her friends. Had he cursed her, she wondered. How would she know if he had? She asked Silvai, her next older sister as they pounded cooked beans into a paste. The girl laughed.

  “You can’t be cursed. You don’t have a name. You’re not even a person yet.”

  “So, if I never have a name, I can’t ever be cursed?”

  Silvai nodded.

  “Then why would I ever want a name?”

  Silvai shook her head in disbelief.

  “Because you’re no one without a name. You have no voice, no meaning, no rights, no power, nothing. You’re just silly.”

  The shaman still frightened her when she saw him, but that was not often. He did not go onto her hill again and soon she felt safe to resume visiting her tree.

  Her parents were glad not to have to leave after the harvest festival. They always preferred to stay through the heavy rains and snow, since it meant less threat to their livestock from wild animals. Now, they had two new calves, twins, and a kid. Everyone agreed it had been an uncommonly good year.

  The winter came softly, with much loved rains and enough snow to bleach the world of color and leave it black and white for the solemn and beautiful ceremony of the dead on the northern plain.

  Polisa’s youngest watched as her named sisters danced with their people, reenacting all the activities of daily life, and making them beautiful, an act for the spirits of their ancestors and for the moon goddess whose power was strongest this night. They sang the ritual songs of simple poetry to which each named person, even the young, could contribute a verse. They carried candle lamps lit at the holy flame of life to their ancestor’s graves and left them burning through the night to guide their loved ones back from the dark and lonely regions where they might be wandering. They left a fingerstick of bread filled with bite sized sections of fruit preserves and sweetened bean paste to nourish the spirits of their dead when they returned home. The night was alive with a festival feeling and people dressed in their best — fur and elegantly painted hides and woven cloaks of the softest bofimer wool or the more brightly dyed and warmer gathis wool or the goytew feathers woven together in mosaic designs.

  The little girl watched in joy as the plain filled with people she had not seen before, dancing with their kin. She looked for her mother’s father, already barely a memory in her mind, and saw a young and handsome man with her mother’s strong chin and high cheeks standing just behind her aged grandmother.

  “Welcome Grandfather!” she greeted him happily and held out to him a fingerstick bread. He took it with a smile.

  “To whom are you talking?” demanded her grandmother, irritably.

  “Him,” said Polisa’s youngest, pointing.

  The old woman shifted and, peering behind her into the darkness, saw the shaman looking back from several feet away.

  “That’s disrespectful,” said her Grandmother. “You cannot talk to people like that, not until you have a name and something worthy to say.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl apologized to her grandfather.

  “She is missing me tonight,” explained her grandfather gently. “It makes her sad. Give her a kiss for me and leave her alone.”

  The little girl politely kissed her grandmother.

  “From Grandfather,” she explained. Then she went back to watch the dancers.

  For several weeks after the festival many of the dead people stayed, wandering through the village, watching their families and friends at work and play, and occasionally talking to the shaman. Some would smile at her when they saw her, others would frown, but most just ignored her as the living people of her village ignored them.

  Her grandfather came to talk with her once, as she was about her chores. He was off to his wanderings and his home in the spirit world, but he wanted to tell her something. His presence caused too much excitement in the goytew aviary, so he waited until she came out, her basket full of eggs with several small sacks full of the brightly colored feathers.

  “Your grandmother is not well,” he said. “She will die by the next winter.”

  The girl looked up at him sadly. “I will miss her.”

  “You should tell your mother and your uncle. They will need to be ready.”

  The little girl promised she would.

  “And tell your mother to be happy. This next one will finally be a boy.”

  She told her uncle, the tanner, first about her grandmother’s death. He was easier to talk to than her mother.

  “Who told you this?” he demanded.

  “Grandfather.”

  “Your father’s father?”

  “No. Your father.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  “I think that’s why he knows.”

  Her uncle laughed at his niece’s imagination and thanked her for the message.

  Her mother, on the other hand, was furious with her for making up such lies. She bent her youngest over her knee and spanked her harshly.

  “But I’m only telling you what he said!” cried the little girl.

  “You do not talk about the dead, and you do not say that someone will die. I’ll have your father beat you the next time you come telling any such stories!”

  The little girl drew away, afraid, rubbing her stinging bottom. She had promised her grandfather, however, so she had to tell the rest.

  “Only one more thing,” she said. Her mother lunged at her. She slipped behind the fire, out of reach, and quickly shouted, “He says you should be happy. It’s going to be a boy!” Then she ran out of the little house and kept out of her mother’s way for the rest of the day. At dinner that evening her mother watched her oddly but said nothing.

  Chapter 3

  Unnatural Things

  The little girl watched for the Trintoa that spring. They had warned her that the shaman went to the hill every year on that morning and she did not want to meet him again. Her oldest two sisters lifted the window flap and peaked through as he made his way to her hill. She hid under her blanket on her sleeping mat until she was sure the shaman had passed.

  “He’s looking at us,” whispered Katira, jumping quickly away from the window. She was the oldest, a woman for over two years, and getting her life joined with her lover this day. This was her last morning in their room. Tomorrow she and her husband would wake in a house of their own already built by her mother’s family. The girls had been sewing and crafting for months to prepare it and cooking over a week to make as generous a feast today as their modest means could afford.

  “You think he’s thinking of you,” giggled Misa, the second oldest.


  “He’s thinking of us all, of course,” responded Katira properly, but they all knew that, in her heart, Katira hoped the shaman would sing a special prayer for her and her man.

  Their mother watched too, still slim in her fourth month of pregnancy. She was thinking about her youngest who had told her it would be a boy even before she was sure that she was carrying. She desperately prayed that her daughter would prove right.

  Her husband prayed with her — not only for a son but also for the continued health of his livestock and the hope of good crops. Another such year as last year had been and he might be able to marry off, with honorable celebration, as many as three more of his girls. He might even get an apprentice or two, which would allow him more of the village’s cropland to work and therefore more honor.

  As the sun finished its rise over their heads, the people climbed the eastern hill to the sacred tree.

  Yaku Shaman looked tired and grim.

  “The spirits were here,” he announced. “They listened, but they were not so pleased. We may still hope for a good year…” but his eyes looked doubtful.

  Through the crowd of his people, he sought out Polisa’s youngest. She was against the tree, her ear to its trunk, listening as though she could hear something within. One of her older sisters grabbed her arm and pulled her away, scolding her that such a sacred thing was not a toy for babies.

  One by one the children to be named knelt before the shaman. He had watched them grow, had discussed them with the spirits of their families and spirits of the village in general, and knew the names that they would carry until they reached adulthood and found their true names themselves. These he shared:

  “Tanasai,” to one little girl, “for your stitching is as fine as a spider’s.”

  “Bolasu,” to a boy, “in honor of your swift running for short times, like a gust of wind.”

  And on, until all of age were named and honored for the voice they now were granted.

  Then the couples came and stood before him, as a group, each pair hand in hand. The men led the women to him. The wives would lead their husbands away, to the feast and back to their homes.

  He told them of the sacredness of this joining of life and what it would mean to them — the commitments that would be expected, the freedoms lost, the strengths gained. The couples, old and young, smiled at him and at each other and did not really hear. It was only words. The old man who spoke them had never married. A holy man lived with the spirits, not a woman. His children were his people. Such simple pleasures as kissing a loving wife good morning or leading a child that was half your life and half your heart into adulthood, such things were too mundane for the shaman — too distracting from his spiritual duties. Had he come before himself, as a young man with a beautiful lover, perhaps one as strong and wise as the renown Katira, with deep brown hair, hazel eyes, and a full, blooming body…he would not have heard his lonely old man’s words either. Each couple would find through time what sharing a life was like. He who had never known could not teach them.

  As he proclaimed their lives joined in a new beginning and sang for the spirits to bless them and keep away the evil, which threatened all beginnings, a cheer rose from his people. The singing and dancing commenced, and the feasts were set. Takan and his wife, Polisa, congratulated their daughter and their first new son, embraced their growing family, and set their feast grandly for any who would come. All were welcome. Takan made the sacrifice to the spirits at the holy tree, a gift of holy pollen painted on the leaves. His new son followed with a gift of sweet buds laid at the roots.

  It was their happy day and Yaku felt ill at ease, knowing he would intrude with an unwelcome request. Had it been a son he wanted, one already named, his choice would bring the family honor. No one was above the shaman of a village, not even the village leaders. To have a son that the spirits themselves had chosen was the highest approval the gods could show — but not for a girl. The spirits were not known to choose females. She could be looked at as a freak going against the intent of nature, especially since he requested her so young — not even a person yet. But how his bones ached this year — ten times what they had the year before. He could not wait. The Trintoa was the day for apprenticing. His request had to be made today.

  He presented Takan with his congratulations. They were happily accepted.

  “Where is your wife?” he asked with forced casualness, “I have a request to make of her.”

  “Polisa is talking with Asta,” answered Takan nodding in the direction of the women. He eyed the shaman curiously.

  “You might wish to listen,” warned Yaku.

  He waited until Polisa had moved out of her conversation and caught her before she found another.

  “Polisa, mother of…your youngest,” he greeted her formally.

  The woman looked up at him startled, disbelieving any of the options such an address might suggest. She glanced at Takan. He shrugged, confused.

  “What has she done?” asked Polisa, worried.

  Yaku lifted himself to the full length of his great height.

  “I seek an apprentice,” he announced, in a low voice to save the parents embarrassment, “and the spirits have chosen…her.”

  Takan’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped in open astonishment. Polisa took it better. She paused only long enough to catch her breath then, glancing around to make sure they had not been overheard, led the shaman away from the crowd to a place they would not be disturbed. Takan meekly followed.

  “Shaman what can you mean?” Polisa demanded. “Our youngest is a girl. You cannot want her.”

  “She is the one I want.”

  “Then you must be mistaken.”

  “There is no mistake.”

  “There must be,” insisted Polisa. “Our family is an honorable one. We have done the spirits no harm. There is no reason for them to shame us.”

  “It is an honor.”

  “Not for a girl. It is unnatural — unthinkable.”

  “The spirits have chosen her.”

  “But not as shaman. No woman can be shaman. If the spirits want her, let her serve them by marrying and having babies as the rest of us do. I can let her be a healer. I can let her tend the shaman, fix his meals, tan and weave his clothes, keep his house but not live in it. That is not how women serve. It would not be pious for her to be your ‘apprentice,’ Yaku Shaman.”

  “She is the one the spirits chose,” responded Yaku sternly. “Their decision is clear. There is no mistake. She is the one they will listen to and she is the one they will follow. All our village will suffer if you withhold her from me, Polisa.”

  “The spirits don’t even know her, Shaman. She’s not a person yet. She hasn’t got a name. You cannot ask for an apprentice who hasn’t even got a name.”

  “It is the spirits who give the names. They have already told me hers. I can name her today…”

  Polisa shook her head.

  “It’s unnatural. One unnatural thing pushing up another.”

  Yaku waited, his face fierce and unmoving, his body fixed like a statue, his eyes watching the mother. It was her decision.

  “What would you offer?” asked Takan suddenly.

  “Shut up, you!” snapped Polisa.

  “But if the offer is high enough…” argued her husband.

  “And you care nothing for our honor? But, of course, you can always say she is not your daughter — there is no doubt that I’m her mother. I would be the mother of a monster while you are merely a cuckold.”

  He answered her quietly.

  “Polisa, we have seven daughters, possibly more. That’s seven people on a small farmer’s take who eat as much as any man but cannot claim the same share of land. It will be many years before she can bring us a husband who might have skill as a farmer. With so many children to raise and marry how can we afford to keep such a young one for whom a reasonable offer might be made?”

  “How would we marry the others with such a shame upon our house?”<
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  “They are all pretty and sweet enough, and people’s memories are short, especially young men’s.”

  Polisa shook her head.

  “And if the price were high enough,” continued her husband with a sideways glance at the shaman, “high enough to marry the rest of our daughters with honorable display, high enough to build our farm into something worthy of notice, high enough to possibly earn me position as an elder, then we will gain more honor than we could lose. It is not our fault the spirits chose her. If she were a boy…”

  “But she’s not!”

  “How can having a holy person in our family — even a woman, be shameful?”

  Polisa glared at him angrily but had no answer.

  “What do you offer?” she asked carefully of the shaman.

  In his heart, Yaku smiled. He had his apprentice. Now only the details needed to be confirmed.

  Polisa was a hard bargainer. She got every advantage she could for her daughter. Her husband had his seat with the elders — as the father of a holy one, how could they refuse? They had the promise of honorable wedding feasts for all their remaining daughters, to be subsidized by the communal funds as necessary. And when Carken, the childless farmer whose lands bordered theirs, died, his lands and stock, which would normally go to the village common to be allotted to another farmer, would be turned over to Takan and his family to work for the village, with the promise of three boy apprentices to help grow it. Furthermore, her daughter would not be named until her proper time the following year. Polisa tried to insist on keeping the girl until then, but Yaku stood firm on that count. He had to have the child immediately. It was finally agreed that he would take her as a “servant” — perhaps as a charity to a struggling family – and only officially as an apprentice after she had her name.

  “Let her be called your servant from now on,” begged Polisa lastly, “and not our daughter. The quicker people forget, the better.”

  It was settled.

  When the time came to return to the village, Polisa took her youngest and placed the child’s hand in the shaman’s.