The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  Again she nodded. She seemed to understand. She stepped up to the corpse of an older man and pointed to the blade in his belly.

  “No Kolvas,” she said again. She pulled the blade out and offered it to Jovai. “Akarian.”

  “Are you sure?” Jovai demanded.

  Gilix pointed to the knife “No Kolvas. Akarian.”

  “They traded with the Akarians. This could have been their own knife, turned against them.”

  Gilix pointed to other weapons, identifying them as Akarian. “No Kolvas,” she explained again. It was true, there were no darts or long blades of the Kolvas style. There were no weapons of any kind that were similar to anything Jovai had seen in the Kolvas camp.

  Gilix next found a corpse that was obviously not a Gicok. There were only a few shreds of torn flesh left on it, but the flesh was black, and the patches of hair on the left on the head were a bright gold.

  “A trader?” suggested Jovai. But now she looked around and saw that several of the corpses were not Gicoks but Akarians. Enough still wore thick padded protection vests and heavy belts hung with many weapons. The Akarian traders had never appeared to her people so dressed.

  “But they were friends,” insisted Jovai. She pointed to the many signs of feasting and celebration scattered around. “It looks like they were feasting together, welcomed friends.”

  Gilix shrugged.

  “No Kolvas,” she said. It was the only point she had to make. There were no Kolvas bodies and no Kolvas weapons — nothing Kolvas at all. Jovai could only believe her.

  Jovai grabbed an Akarian long blade and started toward the nearest tree. Time for her to gather wood. It would be at least one long day’s hard work. She didn’t look to see if Gilix followed. What the girl did now no longer concerned her. She had seen the carnage. That was all that mattered.

  A short while later, Gilix joined her. Jovai smiled at her. Gilix did not meet her eyes but set into work on the trunk where Jovai had paused. She had found an ax she could wield and together she and Jovai felled the tree and chopped it into pieces.

  When they reached the center of the camp with the first armload of wood, they found a large space cleared, with a pile of corpses stacked beside it, waiting. Tied to each of them, around their necks if they still had one, or tucked inside their wounds, was a reed plugged at one end and covered at the other with a piece of leather. The Gicok stood beside the pile. A reed was in his hand, from which he carefully removed a lock of yellow hair before he tied the reed to the one remaining leg of the topmost corpse.

  Jovai stood silently beside him until he grunted to acknowledge her.

  “Look, when you gather them, to find a sign of who killed them.”

  “Kolvas,” he grunted.

  “There is nothing here of the Kolvas — no bodies, no weapons…”

  “They clear away.”

  “They haven’t had that much time. The bodies were stiff when we first found them, but not decayed. They weren’t long dead, maybe two days, or three. The Kolvas say they arrived just before they found us.”

  “They lie!”

  “They would have missed something. There is too much chaos for every sign of the attackers to have been cleared away, yet the only signs that I have seen and recognized are of Gicok and Akarian. Just look,” she suggested gently. “See what you can find.”

  By sunset the funeral pyre was piled high, the Gicok corpses nestled among the wood. The Gicok ghosts were all around. Jovai could feel them, although she didn’t see them. There was an air of waiting, an expectation. She hoped fervently that the ghosts would go away once their bodies were ash and charred bone.

  Next to the pyre was a small stack of bodies — Akarian. There were not many. The Akarians must have taken care of their own, accidentally missing only a few of their dead. It seemed unforgivably careless, but she had seen no Akarian ghosts so, perhaps, it did not matter so much to them.

  “What do we do with them?” she asked the Gicok.

  He shrugged. Then he pointed to one of several bodies that were lying separate.

  “That one yours,” he said.

  “Mine?” she looked at it, confused, but in the growing mist and dying light, it was only a blurry lump.

  “Vohee,” he said. “Dead slave.”

  She stared up at him, shocked, and felt her face flush with horror.

  “You kept one of my people slaves?” She demanded.

  “His master honored him in death,” replied the Gicok calmly.

  “You mean you also killed him,” she interpreted for herself.

  “Honor,” the Gicok stressed. “He burn with my people?”

  She had to fight back her sudden renewal of anger and hatred of the Gicoks to realize the kindness he was offering.

  “Stay. Wait,” she said, gesturing him away. She knelt beside the corpse to which he had gestured and turned it so its face lay toward the sky. Fair skin, long brown hair, not pulled back now but hanging loose. The eyes had been pecked away, the body torn open and disemboweled, the throat cut with merciful precision and dried blood coated much of his nakedness, but she recognized the face. He was only a year or two older than herself. The thought struggled through the shocked numbness of her brain. He was practically as young as she, and a better warrior, and he was the only one to ever have said she was pretty.

  “Litazu,” she cried softly, “Berailen,” that was his adult name — the bold fool. The one who had left his people to escape her. “Where is your spirit now?” she asked in spirit’s tongue. “Are you trapped here too? What can I do to appease you? How can I set you free? Are you still waiting? Shall I call the ancestors here?” Would they come to this strange place? “Berailen,” she prayed, “if you are here, help me know what to do.”

  “Do nothing, witch,” came the answer from the swirling mist around her. She knew his voice from memory. “I would not have you touch me. I cursed you with my dying breath. Now your master can have his way. I prayed that no one will ever touch you in love or else he will suffer for it. Everyone you love will suffer because of you.”

  Jovai gasped in horror. For a moment, she felt she could not understand him. It was as if his words made no sense, then their meaning slowly sunk in.

  “I love our people,” she protested. “Have you then cursed them too?”

  “I curse no one but you since no witch can love.”

  “Berailen, repeal your curse or everyone we have loved will suffer for it.”

  “I am dead. I can do nothing now.”

  “Berailen, you are a fool!” she cried. She buried her face in her hands, but they couldn’t stop her tears. She felt the sudden pressure of a warm and living touch on her shoulder. The Gicok stood beside her, comrade in sorrow.

  “How did you die?” she asked the corpse, with words his spirit would have to answer.

  “The Akarians were welcomed as friends. When they started to attack, many of them were already inside and many others secretly surrounded. There was no escape. My master was kind. He offered me the honor of this death. Rather than feed Gorat, I accepted.”

  “Then it was the Akarians,” she said softly to herself. She glanced up at the Gicok, but although his hand still rested on her shoulder, he gave her privacy by keeping his face turned away.

  “Is your spirit restless still?”

  “I am angry,” it replied.

  “What does it need to be calm and free?”

  “What all the spirits here want — revenge.”

  “We are not a vengeful people,” she argued, although she doubted her own words.

  “Burn me with my people, those who accepted me after you made me an exile. But my spirit will not leave this world until Gorat is destroyed.”

  “I will sing you Soul’s Ease,” she told him.

  “Then every sound will mock you,” he answered.

  She raised her voice in the sweet kindness of the song and the space around her echoed her words, casting them back distorted and foolish sounding.
Never-the-less she finished her song and let the last echo die before she rose and addressed the Gicok.

  “Let him burn with his master,” she said. “I thank you for this honor to one of my people.”

  The Gicok solemnly added Berailen’s body to the pyre.

  “What about them?” asked Jovai, pointing to the two other slaves from foreign peoples and the pile of the Akarian warriors.

  “Vitka,” he said, pointing to the other slaves, “savages. Animals take care of animals.”

  “And the Akarians?”

  He frowned, disgusted and turned away. “Animals take care of animals,” he repeated.

  “Then you know — it was they who killed your people?”

  He nodded.

  “Dolkati warrior people. Always ready for enemy. Always good to friend. Only way to kill Dolkati is come as friend. Akarians all die for betrayal.”

  “No Kolvas,” whispered Gilix. She was hovering at a distance, so quiet that the others had forgotten she was there.

  The Gicok flashed her an angry glance and turned away.

  “We share a common enemy now,” said Jovai. “The Akarians betrayed the Kolvas years ago. Now they have betrayed your people. Soon it will be my people.”

  “They will die!” he vowed.

  “But now we are only two alone. The Kolvas are many people. They can help us. We need them.”

  “I no need filthy flesh-eaters. This only my Dolkati-ka. Many Dolkati-ka over world. I find others now.”

  “If the Akarians who came here maybe five, maybe six days ago, went immediately in search of other Dolkati-ka, would they find them before we could if we left now?”

  The Gicok nodded bitterly.

  “They know my people. They know Dolkati-ka all go.”

  “What chance is there that someone might have escaped to go warn the other Dolkati-ka?”

  “No,” answered the Gicok. “Dolkati-ka most women, children. Few men. Many men now help Akarian, make trade for winter goods.”

  “It would be stupid to kill only one Dolkati-ka and leave the others to make war because of it. They would eventually find out, wouldn’t they?” The Gicok nodded.

  “Then we must warn the other Dolkati. But we are only two, and there were many Akarian warriors who did this. Who knows where they went? They could still be near. They could kill us and nothing would be gained.”

  “Only two could hide. Dolkati know land. Akarian stranger here.”

  “If we do find other Dolkati-ka, will they be enough to help? Women, children, elders, can they be enough warriors to kill all Akarians?”

  “They are Dolkati. Dolkati warriors all. All can fight.”

  “But are they enough? And if they are…if we can’t find them, are we alone enough?”

  “You speak evil,” he growled at her.

  “The Kolvas hate the Akarians. They have warred against the Akarians.”

  “They lost!”

  “They might war again.”

  “They are few.”

  “They are more than we are now, and there are more Kolvas than we know here. Other Kolvas went other ways. If the Kolvas help us, we would have more people, more power. And maybe my people would help us too.”

  “You would get Vohee?”

  “Some of my people might listen to me, but important others wouldn’t. And you have been our enemy so they wouldn’t listen to you. But they don’t know the Kolvas. If the Kolvas would speak to them, warn them, then they might listen and believe.”

  “Vohee make pact with blood-drinkers!” He spat on the ground as if the taste of his words displeased him.

  “It might save them if they did. It would help you if you would. They are a people of a different belief, but they are people, and their numbers can make us stronger.”

  “No!”

  Gilix had eased her way to Jovai’s side, again keeping Jovai between herself and the Gicok. She was quiet, unobtrusive. It was only when she took Jovai’s hand that Jovai realized she was there. She pointed to the pyre waiting to be burned and then to the sky which had grown fully dark now and thick with cool mist.

  “Dark now,” said the Gicok, pretending to ignore her. “Time for fire.”

  “Kolvas come,” whispered Gilix in Jovai’s ear.

  Jovai shrugged.

  “Kolvas come,” repeated Gilix, significantly. “Bad. Bad.”

  “Will they kill us?” asked Jovai.

  Gilix frowned, not fully understanding, but she ventured a nod. “Difsat,” she said. She pointed to the pyre. “Bad.”

  Jovai glanced toward the Gicok. He was busy sparking some kindling into a fire. Quickly she grabbed the girl’s hand and led her toward the edge of the Gicok camp.

  “Go back then,” she told the girl. “Go quickly.”

  Gilix started running but stopped when she saw Jovai was not following.

  “Come,” she said. Jovai shook her head. The girl’s eyes grew large and frightened. “Bad!” she insisted. “Come.”

  “Go,” Jovai told the girl. “I’m staying.”

  “No.” Gilix returned to Jovai’s side and took her arm. “Bad. Kolvas come. Bad.”

  “Go to your people, Gilix,” insisted Jovai, pushing her away. “Tell them the Akarians killed the White Ones. Tell them that the Akarians might still be near. Do you understand?” She used what she guessed was the Kolvas word for understand. Gilix shook her head.

  Behind them, the crackling of a fire sounded, and the smell of smoke began to permeate the fog. Gently, a man’s voice rose in rhythmic lament. It was a gruff sound but full of courage and strength. The hisses and pops of the fire grew louder, seeming to keep time with the song. As Jovai listened, she could feel her heart beat slower, also in time with the song. This was no shaman singer, just a simple man, but this song of his people drew her. She forgot about Gilix, about the angry Kolvas coming. She forgot everything except the beat of her heart, the rhythm of her steps, the glitter of the fire, and the song of the singer.

  The words were simple. There were few and often repeated. She didn’t know what they meant, but it didn’t matter. Her voice sang them of its own accord. Her steps grew into a dancing pattern, circling the pyre. And it was a crowd of people she danced with — shapes appearing and fading as the mist swirled and the slow wind breathed life into the fire of the dead. Hands reached toward her that never touched, and lips moved in song that was only the whisper of the wind. Not all were human. Many were part or wholly beast, but great and strong in spirit power. Demon-like shapes played through the fire, devouring the bodies greedily — food for the spirits. And sometimes from the fire, arms would wave or faces would smile or grimace and seem so alive that it was hard to resist pulling them out into the safety of the cool night, but the dancers and the flames barred the way and laughed derisively at the humans so fooled. “Keep your place,” they cried, “it’s not your turn.”

  The flames climbed, and the dance quickened, and it was the song bending to the rhythm of the dead, letting them lead the way.

  “The hero’s glory!” screamed the Gicok.

  “The hero’s glory!” yelled Jovai.

  “The hero’s glory!” echoed Gilix, proud and defiant.

  What language it was they saluted in, Jovai never knew. The words felt as if they were born from her soul and voiced in true intent, without the mediator of any words at all.

  Others were crowding into the camp — men with weapons. At the sight of the fire, they stopped amazed and stared spell-bound at the Dolkati man, the Vohee youth, the Kolvas woman and the dancing ghosts.

  One Kolvas man let out a high-pitched battle cry. Jovai laughed with an almost insane delight for, although she knew he was Kolvas, the cry she remembered from her own people in battle with the Gicok warriors.

  The Kolvas men came alive at the sound of that cry. They raised their weapons and rushed forward into the crowd of dancing mist. They turned this way and that, attacking shapes that were nothing but empty air before their weapons coul
d hit. They yelled, and they screamed in mad frustration, and their screams became a chant, and their attacks became a dance, and the fire grew higher as the night grew darker. The flames tore through the thick white air and reached up to a dazzling full moon.

  “Great goddess,” prayed Jovai, bowing to the moon, “bridge between the worlds. Half your light to all the world of the living and half your light to all the world of the dead. Your presence comforts us and eases our way. Thank you.”

  She felt the moonlight fall upon her, like a mother’s kiss. The moon was shining in her valley now too, on her master’s head as he sang the festival of the full moon. She could see his face, deeply lined with a lifetime of worry, reflected as if the moon were his mirror. His eyes met hers with surprise and joy. For one, miraculous moment they were together again. Then the smoke and fog rose to hide the moon from view.

  By dawn, the fire was burning low, embers, ashes and charred bones. The dancers slumped, exhausted, and the few remaining singers, Kolvas, Gicok, and Vohee, pushed the last of the words through raw throats, over stiff tongues.

  Gilix yawned, her head resting on Jovai’s shoulder and sighed. She lifted her head, stretched like one awakening from a long, deep sleep and rubbed her eyes open. Then she stared around her amazed.

  “Kolvas come!” she exclaimed.

  Jovai let the last echo of the song die in the dawn before she came awake enough to see what Gilix meant. All around, the Kolvas people sat or lay — not just the men with their weapons, whom she vaguely remembered, but the women and the children too. All the people of the Kolvas were here gathered, sleeping or waking, exhausted from a long night of attending to the Gicok dead. A few at first, then others rose like sleepwalkers and made their way back to their tents.

  “The Kolvas do your people honor,” said Jovai to the Gicok. He sat slumped, head resting against his knees. He did not bother to raise his head but offered Jovai a tired grunt for acknowledgment.

  “Are we finished? Can we rest now?” asked Jovai. Her whole body ached for sleep.

  “Hmm.” The Gicok pulled from his belt a cloth bag of his people and handed it to her to see. It was filled with the little locks of Gicok hair which he had pulled from the token-filled reeds. “This I do alone,” he told her. “Even good Dolkati Friend no help.”