by B. Muze
The shaman sucked, pinching at her skin until the blood filled his mouth with three swallows. Jovai’s head swam. Even kneeling, it was all she could do to keep from toppling over.
When he had finished, the shaman rubbed a powder in her wound that made it sting terribly.
“The cross will be red,” he whispered to her, “and the mark will stay on your body forever.”
To his people he turned and spoke as he positioned himself in front of Jovai, kneeling, so his head was equal to hers. Then he turned to face her. He lifted her limp arm and pressed a heavy object into it. It was the stone knife he had used on her, still smeared with her blood.
“We have killed our enemy. We honor your bravery through death by taking your blood into our bodies so you may live on as part of us and our children forever. May it bring us strong life and good hope. Now we wish to welcome the one we would be proud to call “friend.” For the life we have taken, we give new life, and since all new life is first fed by the parent’s blood, so we shall feed you.”
He opened the thick skins of his vest, dropping them to his waist, and pulled away the cords and chains and beaded ornaments, leaving his chest bare to her.
“I offer myself for all my people. Here,” he pointed toward his heart. “Our blood flows from here. This is where you cut.”
He traced the cuts she should make, one down, one across. She stared at him dumbly, then down at the knife in her hand. It was so heavy — too heavy to lift, even if she could believe what he was asking her to do.
He took her hand with the knife up in both of his and lifted it to his chest. One cut, light, just the skin, the second cut, deeper but easily healed. His blood pumped forward, gathering on his skin. She watched, mesmerized, as it slowly started to trickle toward his wide belly.
“Now drink,” he said.
She stared at him, eyes wide, and shook her head in horror.
“Drink,” he insisted. “You must.”
He cupped his hand behind her head and pulled it, forcing her lips to press against his wound. She tried to squirm away but did not have the strength.
Then she tasted it — warm, salty, thick — and her hunger overwhelmed her. She sucked, greedily devouring this almost-nourishment, until the blood from the small cuts stopped flowing.
The shaman gently pushed her away.
“That was the blood acceptance,” he said smiling. “Now you are one of us.”
As she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, she saw it come away red and sticky. She closed her eyes and shut her breath against the sickness that rose in her.
The shaman spoke again to his people, and the people around her cheered, not now in practiced song, but in wild whelps and cries. The tent became a madhouse of activity as people scrambled away in directions of their own.
“You may speak now,” said the shaman, good-naturedly.
“Then you will not kill me?” she asked, still dazed.
Before them, mats had been spread and were being filled with food. She could hardly think for hunger. The shaman did not wait but eagerly grabbed at the pasty contents of the nearest bowl, passing it to Jovai only after he had filled his mouth with enormous portions. She tasted it eagerly. It did not have strong flavor but was delicately scented with herbs that made it pleasant to smell.
“Not again,” the shaman answered her question as soon as he was able. “We have made you one of us — our daughter and sister. Soon, we will decide among the families which of them will be enlarged by you.”
“What if no one wants me?”
The shaman laughed.
“Everyone will want you,” he said. “Your courage was much admired and your loyalty to your friend — and of course, the entrancement. Vakit, one of the warriors who ran away from you, has already requested you for his family since I told him I would not let you be of the warrior lodge. I know you will do better though. If he wants you in his family, I think he will have to marry you to one of his brothers.”
Jovai blushed deeply.
“Will I have a choice — of family?” she asked.
“Of course. But I will help you since you cannot speak to us yet.”
“And who…what may I call you?”
He turned to her astonished, then laughed.
“You know, I can’t remember even once in my lifetime that anyone whom I wanted to have my name did not already know it. I am called Difsat, of the Bat Clan, one of several shaman for my people and acting leader for this particular group.”
“Are there other groups?”
He nodded, his mouth too full of food to answer with coherent words.
“But why have you split apart?”
He nodded again and forced a quick swallow.
“It is sad business — not good for the digestion,” he answered, and stuffed more food in his mouth.
A young and very beautiful woman came by, offering up a bowl filled with chunks of spiced meat. Jovai grabbed at some hungrily, then stopped herself, suddenly remembering the Gicok’s fear. She sniffed at the meat but could not identify it through the spices.
“Boshaia,” Difsat thanked the woman politely.
She nodded to him, smiling, then stood expectantly before Jovai.
“Boshaia,” Jovai said awkwardly.
The woman nodded, but still stared, smiling.
“Gilix awaits the compliment of your expression as you eat it,” the shaman explained.
“It…it smells delicious,” Jovai said, nervously, “but who…what is it?”
“An aged buck came among us this morning. He slowly walked through the center of camp. Many men tried to kill him, but no arrow or dart could touch him until he came before Gilix. She was sitting to eat her breakfast, but when the buck stopped before her, she set her bowl on the ground and let him eat it instead. People gathered as he ate. When he had done, he raised his head and nodded toward Gilix. Then he turned toward a bowman who was aiming his bow and let himself be shot. As was his wish, Gilix had the honor of preparing him for this feast.”
Jovai nodded respectfully to the honored woman and politely tasted the meat as she watched. The juice of the meat came pouring into her mouth, filling her senses with waves of delight. She felt a shiver of pleasure down her spine, and her body tingled with the warmth of the mouthful.
Jovai looked up at Gilix, amazed.
“You are skilled beyond any cook I have known,” she exclaimed.
Difsat happily translated. The woman, much pleased, set the bowl down before Jovai, holding eyes with her a little longer than was comfortable. She glanced back once as she left, smiling coyly.
As soon as the woman was out of sight, Difsat burst out laughing. Jovai stared at him, amazed, for she had never seen a shaman laugh.
“I think she likes you,” he said when he could catch his breath.
“Then I was not rude?” asked Jovai, confused.
“Oh, you were. You waited much too long to taste her food and you never once smiled at her.”
“I don’t understand…”
“She thinks it is a brave, young, warrior man whom we are honoring today — someone new, who does not love her yet — has not played for her yet. I think we will let her continue believing that for a while. It will do her good.”
“Then you have not told them…?”
“Not yet, and now I won’t for a while. Can I trust you to not tell?”
“I will defer to your judgment,” Jovai answered. She was not sure what she felt.
“And your friend — the White One?”
She shrugged. “He doesn’t even speak the language.” She was not sure if he knew her gender. She felt fairly certain that he wouldn’t care.
She glanced around for the Gicok but was not surprised to find him absent.
“How is he?” she asked.
“His wounds were not as bad as they looked, no compliment to our warriors, but he is stubborn and won’t let us help him. Last night our best healer attended him. This morning we
found him collapsed and almost dead near his people’s camp. He had torn his bandages off his body, and his wounds were ripped open again and made much worse. It will be all right, however. Our healer is certain that, if he lets us help him, he will soon be well. We’ll take you to him as soon as we’re finished here.”
For all her hunger, Jovai ate slowly and with much restraint, in deference to the obvious time of starvation her hosts had been through. Difsat, however, feasted heavily, taking to excesses more food and drink than Jovai had ever witnessed before and eating with such obvious relish that Jovai began to wonder if he really was a shaman or just some half-educated pretender. Others of the Kolvas were eating heartily enough for her to believe that it might be a manner of these people. However none were quite as excessive as Difsat.
His amazing voracity was checked only by his taste for gossip. He pointed out each person who passed and filled Jovai’s ear with stories about the people of whom she was now a member. Through his chatter, she caught a glimpse of a people who had suffered much. He vaguely referred to the wars, the bad years, and mentioned the recent past as when they had been “escaping” but would not be pressed into explaining these allusions. He simply dismissed them saying, over and over, “we do not speak of sad things while we eat.”
At last, the feast ended, more because the food was exhausted rather than the appetites. Much drinking still commenced, especially of a fermented berry juice that Jovai found too bitter and burning on the tongue to enjoy, but this activity did not require her presence.
She politely requested to be taken to her Gicok friend and the shaman, too intoxicated to stand, called a couple of boys to guide her.
The Kolvas
Chapter 26
Tension Bound
They led Jovai to a tiny hut in which lay the Gicok stretched out on a thin sleeping mat, arms and legs bound to stakes driven into the earth floor.
He turned his head toward her as Jovai entered and his eyes flickered at her in unconcealed astonishment.
“You not dead?!” he exclaimed.
She shook her head, scanning the clean cloths that wrapped his wounds. Someone had done a good job of bandaging him.
“How are you, Gicok?”
For answer, he pulled his arm against the cords that bound him.
“I tell you not trust them. They lie. They not let me go.”
“I asked them to heal you first,” she said in defense of the Kolvas as she knelt beside him and untied his knots. “Here. Sit up and eat while I untie your ankles.”
She handed him a large bowl of food she had brought for him from the feast.
“I not eat filthy Kolvas food,” he said with a contemptuous shove at the proffered bowl.
“It will be filthy if you spill it in the dirt. Otherwise, it’s fine. Everything there I have tasted myself. Some of it is very good.”
“Man meat,” he declared, disgusted, “Man flavor. Dolkati not eat man.”
“It’s deer,” she explained, pointing to Gilix’s meat cubes. “And very tasty.”
“How you know?”
“They assured me.”
“They lie. I killed two fighters — more maybe. That one.”
“I would have liked to see you fight,” Jovai told him, quickly changing the subject. “The Kolvas were very impressed with your skill.”
The Gicok grunted, disdainfully. He obviously did not care what the Kolvas thought.
Jovai separated the vegetables from the meat and handed the bowl back to the Gicok. He ate a little, sniffing at each carrot or turnip suspiciously before he bit it. Meanwhile, Jovai untied his legs.
“It good thing you Dolkati Friend,” he said as she worked on his bindings. “I protect you now. We escape together.”
“The Kolvas have offered us friendship and acceptance here.”
She glanced at his face to gauge his reaction, but his flickering eyes were inscrutable.
“Do not trust Kolvas,” he growled softly.
“I earned their friendship. I trust it.”
“What did they do to you?” he demanded.
She struggled for words to explain, but words did not come. It was not the foreign language they were using, but her own spirit, still confused, that held her dumb. At last, she gave up.
“I am alive. It is more than was promised and more than I expected. After…after everything…they bathed and fed me and welcomed me — us. They will heal you, or I will, if you prefer. As soon as you are well enough, you will be free to go.”
“We go now. Kolvas evil. They kill people — my people. They steal souls. Maybe they steal yours already. Maybe that why you not see them evil.”
“Maybe they are not evil.”
“They eat man.”
She shrugged. “So you tell me. But they won’t kill or eat us. We’re safe here as long as we choose to stay.”
“Kolvas always Dolkati enemy.”
“You need healing. I suggest we stay for a while.”
“No!”
“Then you go,” she said, too tired to argue, “but I’m going to rest here at least a couple of days. I need to heal too.”
The Gicok swayed unsteadily to his feet, wincing in pain. When he tried to step, his wounded leg buckled underneath him, tumbling him back to the floor. He pushed himself up again and with great dignity lowered himself back to the mat.”
“My people must protect you as long as you Dolkati Friend,” he pointed to the medallion which Jovai had kept and hung around her neck. “I will honor it.”
“Then you will stay?”
He nodded.
“Until Vohee get smart,” He frowned, “But not forever.”
Jovai smiled.
“I must thank you, Gicok…I don’t know your name — you’ve never told me.”
“Name is personal power. I not tell you. I not ask you yours.”
Jovai accepted that with a nod. It was not so different with her people who would not share their real names, except that her people had social names for convenience.
“’Gicok’ then. Thank you for freeing me from “Master.” Thank you for leading me to safety. And thank you for offering your life in place of mine.”
He grunted. “You Dolkati Friend,” was all he answered.
Later that evening, after she had examined the Gicok’s wounds closely and satisfied herself that they were healing well, Jovai was led to a Kolvas council. It was formed largely of women, many of the men were, apparently, too drunk to attend. It was woman’s business anyway, they explained to her. It was women who brought new people into their lives. Difsat attended as her interpreter. He was less inebriated than when she had seen him last but still very merry.
“I told you I was the leader of these people,” he said with a laugh, “but I lied. This one,” he gestured to the round-faced, squat little woman sitting beside him, frowning at him, “my wife. She runs us all.”
Jovai looked between the couple, confused.
“You are a shaman?” she asked.
“Of course. First requirement for a leader, be a shaman or be married to one,” he doubled over laughing.
Jovai nodded respectfully to the woman. The woman smiled back at her, her face suddenly aglow with good-natured wrinkles and kind eyes.
The lady said something to her husband who stared at her a moment before he burst out laughing with renewed merriment.
“Milapo wants me to welcome you, as a brave warrior, to our council and explain that I am too drunk to be of any use, but I am the only one who speaks to you, so I must stay all the same.”
Milapo spoke again. Difsat made a rude snort of unsuppressed laughter and continued his translation.
“She wishes to congratulate you on your sobriety, but hopes you will feel at ease with us in time.”
They made a place for Jovai to sit between Difsat and an old woman who nodded sleepily in the warmth of the fire.
“Now she says…and she will keep me busy for she speaks a lot…she says you must have m
any questions about us. She plans to tell you everything without reservation. We are curious about you, too, but you must not feel pressured to tell us anything you don’t want. Only, because of the trial we put you through, any shame or dishonor you’ve accrued is considered as belonging to the dead now and no longer a part of you.”
He smiled broadly at her, his eyes glittering with delight.
“Tell them nothing,” he advised. “It’ll drive the old gossips crazy!”
In spite of herself, Jovai laughed. Milapo frowned and jabbed Difsat sharply in the ribs, her voice suddenly scolding. He responded indignantly and made a show of rising. Milapo pulled him back with the air of disciplining a child and cut their argument short. Then she turned to Jovai and commenced speaking.
She introduced the others in the council, all but one old woman who sat silently in the shadows away from the group watching. Then she began their story.
Although Milapo spoke solemnly, Difsat interpreted with a livelier air that suddenly reminded Jovai of her father’s stories when she was small. He did not bring them alive with wild gestures and many voices, but she did suspect there was some exaggeration in his narrative.
She learned of the creation of the Kolvas and their basic history which was so similar to her people’s that it seemed certain they were related in the distant past. When the ice that destroyed the Fourth World came, the people retreated underground. They built great cities and tunnels to connect them and learned to live in the womb of the earth. But after many generations, strange dreams began disturbing the sleep of many — dreams of a green ground beneath their feet, warmed and lit with a shining star. Then the Great One emerged from the darkness — the void that is the origin of everything. He took human form and walked among the people. He talked to them about their dreams and inspired them to trust what seemed too wonderful to believe. The New World under a new sun was ready for them. It was time to climb toward light. Many people rejoiced, but many more scoffed at the Great Spirit. People gathered to follow him, and others came to prevent them. A battle was fought, and the old world was destroyed. Many died, staining large areas of the Earth red with their blood. The stones still shaped the faces and the deeds of the warriors of this battle. Nevertheless, many people escaped, all in small groups, through different tunnels leading different places. The Great Spirit sent different spirits to lead each group to their waiting world.