The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  Jovai glanced at him surprised.

  “Tell him, Vohee,” growled the Gicok, “or I kill you, myself, so they not steal your spirit.”

  “Don’t interfere!” she ordered.

  “You fight me about it?” he jeered.

  “What does he want?” demanded the shaman.

  “He offers to trade places with me.”

  The shaman turned thoughtfully to the Gicok.

  “Does he know you are to die?” he asked.

  “He expects you to kill me and steal my spirit.”

  “Tell him his bravery is admired but that we do not accept.”

  The Gicok’s face darkened angrily as Jovai translated for the shaman.

  “Tell demon man he dishonored killing boy,” he insisted. “I am warrior. I am man.”

  Jovai reluctantly translated.

  “My people want the witch-boy. The warrior is uninteresting,” answered the shaman.

  The Gicok saw the answer in the shaman’s face. Before Jovai could speak, he had grabbed a heavy stone from the ground nearby in one hand and Jovai’s head in the other.

  “I give you better death!” he shouted, holding the stone ready to bash her skull.

  Then suddenly the stone slipped from his grip to fall harmlessly to the ground. His arm dropped, and the Gicok fell face downward next to Jovai’s head, several darts stuck in his back.

  “Did you kill him?” asked Jovai, horrified.

  “He’s sleeping,” answered the shaman as the warriors lifted the Gicok between them. “We can heal him better if he doesn’t fight.”

  He signaled the warriors, and they carried the Gicok away.

  The shaman glanced back once, over his shoulder as he left. Jovai heard his soft voice floating back toward her.

  “Soon,” he said. “Your death will begin soon.”

  Jovai waited through that day, heart leaping at every sound. Every twig snapping or tree rustling behind her made her want to scream. Through the ground that encased her worms wiggled by. She could not escape their slimy tickling against her skin. It led her imagination to burrowing snakes or animals that could feast on her helpless body. Above ground, small animals scurried past, sometimes shy of her, often taking no notice. Ants and flies only bothered her, attracted perhaps by the scent of her sweat. The flies buzzed around in slowly increasing numbers, and a few ants explored annoyingly through her hair and over her face. She could not raise a hand to brush them away.

  The shaman did not return until dusk, and when he came, he was alone. He stood before her, smiling, then pulled from his robes a flask with strange designs of skulls and glowing eyes around a bat painted on it. When he opened the flask, a stench flowed forth from it like the smell of rancid fat. He poured a little of the contents into his hand. It was a dark yellow powder. He mixed it with some liquid from another flask and turned it into a paste.

  “When did you eat last?” he asked Jovai.

  “The morning of the day you took us,” she answered.

  “Good.”

  He knelt before her and gently smeared the paste onto her face, around her eyes and a little down her cheeks. She did not resist.

  “From now on, say nothing,” he ordered as he finished painting her. “One word or sound and the White One dies.”

  He poured more powder into his hands and dropped it carefully in a circle pattern around her, singing softly as he did so.

  In the gathering shadows, she could not see the design he drew, but she could feel its power. He was making her a focus of some strong energy. She felt the pressure build within the circle he had defined for her. She felt the heat rise against the cool of night and her blood pound in her ears.

  The dark was complete, and the air thickening with mist, before the people of the shaman started to come. She could not see them through the shadows. She could barely hear them through the beating in her head, but she knew they were there. She could feel the growing presence of people, and also of spirits — some she knew, many she did not. Cautiously, silently, she reached forth with all her senses to find any friend among them. All that was there was hostility and hatred aimed at her. They were eager to hurt her. They rejoiced at her death.

  The shaman’s song finished and left silence clinging heavily in the air. Everyone waited, people and spirits. The shaman moved away behind her. The people gathered around, outside of the circle, watching him intently. At some sign Jovai could not see, the silence suddenly exploded with frightful screams, and the crowd fell into a frenzy. They jumped up and around, brandishing weapons, screaming words at her, which she could not understand, yet they did not break the painted circle. They moved briskly around it, their steps falling into rhythm and the rhythm forming a dance, the dance somehow increasing their hatred and focusing it on her. She expected to feel the prick of darts in her skull, or the blow of a club, at every moment, and every moment brought both relief and greater anxiety.

  Then behind her someone broke the circle. She could feel the presence in her space as tangibly as though it were a blow to her bones. The presence felt huge, monstrous. It could not be human. Somehow it seemed too grotesque. It circled around in front of her, but so close that even as she stretched her neck to look up at it, she could see no higher than his knees. A sudden stream of warm urine gushed onto her forehead and flowed down her face. She stifled a scream of surprise and closed her eyes.

  When the man was done, he left, behind her where he had entered, and another person invaded her circle. This one was a woman who had brought a brush of leaves and thorns to prick up the dust and wave it deftly into Jovai’s face as she screamed in a hideously shrill voice things Jovai could not understand. She was followed by spitters and shitters, people who kicked earth at Jovai, others who pounded their weapons a hair’s breath from her head, but none touched her directly. Jovai bowed her head and waited patiently for the blows she knew would soon come.

  “You’re going to die,” a voice sounded, clear and loud within her head. She was not sure if it were a spirit or her own, frightened imagination. “All Yaku Shaman’s work and this is the end of it. What a pitiful disappointment for such a great shaman.”

  She kept her silence even in her thoughts and did not answer.

  “A less than worthless life,” shouted another voice, not exactly inside her head, but not precisely outside of it either. “You have done nothing but make everyone hate you.”

  “No people stand with you, witch,” screamed another voice. “They cast you out. They would be happy to know you were dead.”

  “Your own parents are ashamed of you…”

  “Your leaders hate you…”

  “Your people fear the evil that is in you…”

  “You must die, witch. It will be the only good thing you’ve ever done…”

  Jovai wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to make the voices be silent and to tell them…but she could not think what she might say. Her head was pounding. The earth felt as though it were crushing her body. The people were screaming and banging weapons in a horrible cacophony all around her. They were throwing things at her, fouling her, and soon they would be killing her, or worse.

  “Traitor! This is what a traitor deserves.”

  “The spirits have always hated you. They tricked you to make you suffer. They gave you to the slavers…”

  “They gave you to the demon!”

  “They gave you to the witch’s death. You will never join your ancestors now.”

  Jovai bit her tongue to keep it still. So hard did she bite, that blood spurted into her mouth. She had to keep silent, although she couldn’t remember why. She simply clung to her silence as though it were the last branch stopping her from falling to her death. A dart shot so close to her that it scratched her cheek. It was followed by a long blade that took just a single layer of skin from the tip of her nose. Jovai wished with all her heart that it had struck her full through the skull and ended her torture.

  Her heart was beating faster
and faster. It beat with a soft, breathy sound like leather wings on the wind. A shrill sound, like a bell but so high-pitched as to be barely audible, pierced her mind. Shadows fluttered around her strangely like little spirits, dark and evil. Something swooshed past her ear. It was not a blade this time or a club or a stone, but something warm and living. She dared not look up to see.

  “Can you be proud in death, looking like a dung heap, shit tangled in that hair that made you almost a girl?”

  “Now you are uglier than ever.”

  “No man could ever have wanted you as wife.”

  “Your master was always ashamed of you. You were never what he wanted you to be.”

  “You are not good enough.”

  “All you’ve ever done was submit to those who wished you ill.”

  “You are helpless.”

  “They are taking more than your life. They are stealing your sanity and your spirit. If you were a shaman you would fight.”

  “But there is nothing in you to fight for.”

  “There is nothing about you worth keeping.”

  All her fears, all her doubts, all the darkness that was in her was engulfing her, beating at her, destroying her. She wanted to strike out at the voices with her fists and kill them all. Her body, cased in stone-hard dirt, refused to move. Her only weapon was her voice. She could scream at them. Scream and silence them or drown them out with her own cries…

  Or submit. Let the voices cry what they would. Through silence she would face them, hear them, accept them. Through silence she would prove her courage. Her life had been meaningless. Silently she would let it go. If it was all she ever had, she would make her death something to be proud of.

  The mist around her lightened gradually until the noonday sun finally burned it away. People still crowded around her, sometimes more and sometimes less as people came and went. Intruders in her circle were coming at her now in threes and fours. The stench of the piles of waste that surrounded her caused her eyes to burn and made every breath a misery. Heat beat down mercilessly upon her dark hair and painted skin, and the flies swarmed buzzing around her. Her jaw grew sore from being clenched tightly for so long, but it was locked into place, and Jovai could not have opened it now without much pain. She waited silently, with no hope left but that the anger of these people would soon exhaust itself so they could finally kill her and be done.

  Still, they continued, on and on. People would stop and eat, watching as the others continued. Some napped against nearby trees. No one wanted to miss the spectacle, but their energy was gradually dying. By the time dusk had come again, only a hardy handful remained to torment her.

  As the sun set, Jovai once again became aware of the shaman singing behind her. The last of the revelers finished their business and stepped respectfully away. Around her, the wind swirled, kicking up dust and flying away the last of the powder drawn designs. The earth softened its hold on her limbs and slowly squeezed her out, back to the surface. Her legs by this time were too weak to hold her. Hunger and exhaustion stole the last of her strength, but she forced herself to sit, surrounded by piles of stinking feces, and waited for what they would do with her now.

  People were gathering their things and walking away, back toward their camp. She watched them, waiting for someone to grab her too. No one did. Dazedly she wondered if she should follow, but she dared not break her silence to ask the shaman. She turned to look at him, hoping he would give her some clue and saw that he, too, was walking away.

  Soon she was completely alone, unguarded, unwatched. They had not killed her yet. If she wanted to escape, she could easily do so now. They would kill the Gicok, of course…but he had wanted to die, after all. All his family, his people, were dead. It was natural that he should want to follow. Yet, even as she thought this, she cringed in shame. She was still in the Gicok’s debt. If he wanted to die, that was his choice. She could not make it for him. It was she who had offered herself to the Kolvas. She would wait patiently until they finished their business.

  It was nearly dawn before the shaman returned. Exhaustion had overtaken Jovai, and she was deeply asleep, only a little away on a cleaner spot than where he had left her.

  She awoke as the shaman lifted her in his arms. Half asleep she smiled up at him, dreaming it was her master, but he smiled back at her, and she knew it was not.

  The shaman carried her to where a large cask of water was waiting. He set her down on a soft patch of earth at the roots of a great oak and pulled a blade from his clothes.

  Jovai tensed when she saw it. She clenched her jaw and waited in silence for the death blow, her mind frantically wondering whether he would cut her throat or plunge it into her chest. It seemed, somehow, important to know.

  The shaman watched her, a strange glint in his eyes. She might have thought him merry had he not been a shaman. He grabbed the collar of her tunic and pulled it away from her throat and lifted the blade high above her.

  With sudden swiftness, the blade descended upon her. Her heart thudded. Her body went numb. She heard a horrifying sound like the tearing of thick flesh and expected death to follow. It did not.

  She looked up at the shaman, who stared at her curiously, then down at her clothes. He had cut through her leather tunic so deftly that not a scratch marred the skin beneath. Two little breasts peeked shyly from beneath the hanging folds. Jovai frantically grabbed at the torn tunic, but the shaman pulled the leather from her hands and off her shoulders. He brought his blade to task again and cut until the tunic lay in pieces beside her. Then he started on the leggings and even removed her leather boots until, at last, Jovai sat before him, naked.

  From the cask, he drew a cup of water and offered it to Jovai. Her eyes lit with hope at this unexpected gift, and she drank it greedily. When she had finished, she handed the cup back. She hoped the shaman would give her more, but did not ask when he did not offer.

  Next, he drew forth a bowl of water and, with a wet cloth and a sudsing piece of root, wiped the grime from Jovai’s body. His scrubbing was harsh, but no more than the filth required.

  Only when she was sufficiently clean did he let her drink again. This time he let her drink her fill.

  When she was finished the shaman handed her a white woven cloth to wrap around her waist and white woven vest with white fur designs. They were cut large, for a man, and adequately hid her young woman’s figure.

  “You looked like a boy, the way you were dressed before, so I brought man’s clothes, and came myself instead of sending women.”

  Jovai blushed and looked away.

  “Come,” he ordered.

  He stepped before her and started back toward the camp. Jovai obediently followed.

  Chapter 25

  Blood Feast

  The camp was just behind the trees. It was formed of many wood and hide tents — obviously made quickly and not intended to be permanent. A larger tent had been erected where the fighting post had been. In fact, the fighting post now served as a central support with its arms raised higher to help lift the cloth and hide ceiling. Smoke rose up through it, filled with delicious scents. The sides, made of many tanned hides sewed together with sinew and pulled tightly around long poles, had door flaps tied open, inviting entrance. It was there that the shaman was leading her.

  People watched Jovai as she passed. She looked around shyly, expecting to see hatred burning in their faces, but most were merely curious, and some even smiled. She noticed now, as she had not before, that these people were poorly dressed, their clothes torn and not yet mended as though there had not been time. They were tall, but thin, marks of hunger on their bodies, especially the children. Most went barefoot even though the ground was rocky. A few dogs gamboled in and around the large tent, attracted by the smells of food. They were bony. A boy walked by dragging a travois loaded with foods. Even though he was young, he had to bend low, for the travois had been made for a dog, not a human. She found herself wondering what had happened to the dog.

&nbs
p; The shaman paused before the open flap of the tent.

  “In here,” he told Jovai. “Here we will finish this thing. Here I will release you, and when you are finished, our people will celebrate.”

  Jovai nodded grimly.

  The shaman raised his voice, singing loudly in his language, calling to his people within the tent. As he did so, Jovai heard a scrambling from within, and the noises grew momentarily louder. The shaman paused, then repeated his call. The noises started lessening. He called a third time, then a fourth. By the time the last echo of his last call had faded, all was still in the tent.

  They bent low to enter. When Jovai raised her head, she saw the space crowded with people, all of them watching her. In unison, they raised their voices in their strange, rhythmic language. They raised their arms, palms held open, facing her. They brought their arms in, across their breasts, before lowering them.

  Jovai followed the shaman to a space cleared for them in the center of the tent. There he had her kneel, head bent, hair pulled forward, so the back of her neck was clear. Once again, he drew his knife. Jovai was almost past caring. She was numbed from exhaustion, confusion, and the aroma of the cooking food enraged her hunger. She only wished that the shaman might finish her quickly and let her die. These people were hungry for their feast. If she was to be the main course, she did not care to keep them waiting.

  In spite of herself, she winced as the blade nicked her neck. She felt the stinging heat of her blood welling forth, but the cut was shallow, not meant to kill. Again, the shaman cut, across the first. This time deeper, but not nearly deep enough. Then the shaman knelt beside her, placed his mouth to the cross he had opened in her neck and began to suck. She nearly screamed when she realized — he was drinking her blood. They did not plan to wait until she was dead — they were going to consume her alive!

  Her fists clenched against her sides and with all her effort she managed to hold herself still. No wonder the Gicok had been so afraid. Yet he had offered himself in her place. For that, she owed him her silence, that she might buy him his life.