The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  Difsat had instructed Jovai to throw off the cloak as soon as the dance started. She kept it on. The man played a pipe with gentle, slow rhythm. His music echoed the mystery of the hooded figure. Difsat tried to smile encouragingly. He gestured to Jovai to throw off the cape. She kept her eyes away from him and pretended she didn’t see.

  A deep-throated reed raised its song next. Briefly, it joined the first, and as the two played together, Jovai’s movements grew broader and more complex. She pushed her hands from beneath the cloak and let them move as graceful storytellers, dancing with the music. The pipe’s song softened into silence, and the deep-throated reed welled, its sound falling into a steady rhythm that was picked up by a drummer next. Once the rhythm was caught and the reed dismissed, the drummer changed the beat. No longer solemn, but playful. He was bored of the shrouded figure and wanted to encourage her to something more.

  “Take off the cloak,” Difsat hissed as Jovai pulled near. She hurriedly danced away.

  The drum was beating merrily now, joined by another. She let her feet play with the beat, her legs working themselves free of the cloak, her arm pushing it back to give herself space as she swirled, hopped, and leapt with joy. Still, her face was covered. She liked it that way. It was she and the music dancing alone in the dark.

  A flute picked up the beat, never echoing it but adding to it. Its voice was a challenge, playful and daring. It played in a subtle rhythm, sometimes with her, sometimes against her, seeing what she would do. It caressed her spirit and called her to come forth, daring her to be what he knew she was. At first, she fought it, teasingly playing with her cloak, promising with movement to push it aside then pulling it closer around her. But the music grew more pulsing, more demanding, more yearning. It reached around her pride to her passion and promised to raise her to flight if she would only spread her wings. She unclasped the cloak and pushed her arms wide, the fabric flowing down her arms and back. As she turned and leapt, the cloak swept up behind her, and she felt as though she were rising into the air. He was lifting her, with the power of his sound. She could almost feel his arms, reaching to embrace her. He was filling her with his courage. She raised her head high, freeing it from the hood, lifting her eyes to the sunset sky. She smiled, mesmerized, for the music was in her soul now, claiming her with its sure pride. She let the cloak drop altogether and danced as free as the wind, as sweet as the light, passion and purpose filling every movement. Forgotten were the watching crowds. Only one watched her, with his burning eyes, his desire naked in his song, hers flashing like a dancing fire before him.

  Suddenly Koban stopped playing. Jovai stopped dancing. Her chest heaved as it strained for breath. Bits of hair fell from Filani’s beautiful braid-work and curled in the sweat of her brow. She stared at him in shock and wonder. He stared back — at first like a dreamer, his eyes still full of the visions he had seen. Then with shock, followed by anger and disgust.

  Difsat stared, somewhat dazed. It took a moment before he came to himself enough to signal the next musician in the circle to play his turn. There were still many more men to hear.

  The next man was singing, his voice making a beautiful, deep instrument. All the people stared at her now. All the men of the circle were watching her in a way she had never been watched before. Only Koban looked away and would not look at her again for the rest of the dance.

  Jovai knelt, exhausted, head bowed and eyes lowered in submission to her weariness, while the last man of the circle finished his song. Then Difsat beat the drum three times and it was over. The musicians took their instruments and drifted off into the various congratulations of the crowd.

  “Well done,” said Difsat, helping her to her feet. The sun had already set. She had been dancing over two hours. The music had swept her through elation, and sorrow, triumph, and despair. “I named you well, Latohva, Dancing Light.”

  Jovai winced. “I had forgotten I had that to live up to.”

  “You did well,” he assured her. “You should have seen the astonishment on the faces here when you finally took off that ugly cloak. The men, especially, could not stop staring.”

  “Koban could.”

  “Ah,” said Difsat, smiling, “well. He is of the Hawk Clan. The young ones are like that sometimes. It can be taken as a compliment from them, if you want.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she assured him. “May I change out of this dress now?”

  “And into something ugly?” He laughed. “No one will ever believe it again.”

  Prizes from her family were given at the feast for the musicians who had played the best. To the favorite of the people, Difsat gave a beautiful coat of pelts. To the second favorite, he gave a newly sewn pair of new shoes. To the third, he gave a sharpened knife. The next got a blow tube for darts and on and on until all the men were adequately honored. To Jovai’s amazement Koban did not place among the top five. She had heard him as by far the best and could not even remember most of the music of the others, but the people did not agree. She watched Koban as he came forward to claim his prize, a beautifully carved hilt for a long blade. He nodded to her, as custom demanded, but would not meet her eye or smile as the others did. Politeness required that he exchange words with her. She had heard praises of her beauty, of her dancing, and words of honor for her family. Koban stood, staring at her feet, dumbly. Finally, he opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again as he changed his mind. His silence was painful for everyone. Difsat gave him his prize and let him go.

  Chapter 38

  Courting Danger

  Jovai received many invitations that evening from family heads to take a meal with them.

  “Since we’re still on rations you take your share of food,” Milapo whispered to her, “and you go early and help cook.”

  “I don’t know how to cook anything more than you’ve shown me.”

  “It’ll do. Cooking is all the same. The skill is in the seasoning, and I’ll teach you a little more tomorrow.”

  After the meal, Milapo took Jovai for a walk, where they could speak with some privacy.

  “You’re a new woman,” she said, “although you’ve probably been one for a while. I don’t know what you know already, but I’m your mother now, and I will answer any questions you have.” She smiled encouragingly, “Ask me anything.”

  The conversation lasted half the night as they walked or sat among the trees by the edge of the camp. Often, Jovai and Milapo saw fleeting shapes in the moonlight. The woods were full of people and the trees echoed with the sounds of pipes and flutes and songs.

  “They’re playing for you,” whispered Milapo.

  “For me?”

  She nodded. “That’s how our men attract their mates. They try to lure young women from their family homes at night.”

  “Do women ever go?”

  “Of course. If you hear a song you like, you go to find out who the man is.”

  “Then what?”

  Milapo smiled at the sweetness of her own memories. “That depends on how much you like the song and the man. Sometimes you try to sneak away without letting him know you were there. But they’re looking for you, so that’s hard. Sometimes you talk, and what you say is only between you two, and never goes any farther as long as both of you are honorable. Sometimes you kiss and play a little, but only if you really like him. If you think he is the one you probably want to marry, and you know he wants to marry you, then you can lie with him. You may do anything you like and, if the man is as a man should be, no one will ever know what you’ve done. Only, if you get pregnant, then your time for play is finished, and you must choose a husband — preferably before the men find out. Some men decide not to marry a woman if they think her child might not be theirs.”

  “What if you don’t go out to see any of them.”

  “Then they give up. Men are usually very easily discouraged. But you shouldn’t be so picky, or Difsat will end up choosing your husband for you. I honor my husband and his wisdom in all things
, but, only between us, I advise you to choose your own husband and not let him get too much involved.”

  “Do I have to get married? Is there nothing I can do to avoid it?”

  “Avoid it?” Milapo turned to her in surprise. “Of course, you can’t avoid it. Especially now when so many of our young people have been killed or taken in the wars. We need every baby every one of our women can bear, even a tired old woman like me. It’s the first and most important duty of every young person to get married. Even the ugliest and the most annoying, if they can’t find anyone to marry them their family will buy or beg someone for them. You are very lucky. You don’t know how lucky you are. We were afraid since you were a stranger and especially since you kept yourself so ugly, we were afraid the men would avoid you. Tonight, we thank all the spirits that you have made such a good impression. You now have your choice from all the very best men we have left. As you honor the people who have taken you in, as you honor the family who has worked so hard for you, you will use your choice wisely.”

  They talked as Jovai had never talked to a woman before on subjects that she had never dared even think about. In all things, Milapo was candid. She shared with the young girl all the knowledge she had learned not only from her own young womanhood and her many years as a wife and mother, but also from the experiences told to her by the other women she had known. Jovai had never guessed that women would talk so easily about such intimate, and to her, very awkward subjects. She listened, amazed, as Milapo opened up to Jovai her history, her feelings, her frustrations and joys, her observations on men and women and their interaction and life in general. And she encouraged Jovai to express her fears, her worries.

  Jovai found the courage to tell her things of her life before that she had not shared with anyone, ever. She told her of Litazu and her master, although she did not tell her of Litazu/Berailian’s curse, for already she had forgotten it — it had faded away with the nightmare of the ghosts. She told her of Misa, who was not allowed to take her to the woman’s place, and of her own mother who had been ashamed to even call her daughter, and of her father, who had been among those who had sold her as a slave to the traders. Milapo took her in her arms, as a mother would hold a very young child, and stroked her hair comfortingly and helped her let go of all the shame and unhappiness that Jovai had not even known she was carrying. She cried as she told Milapo her stories, but with each story spoken, she felt lighter, until, by the end of the stories, she felt giddy and light enough to float.

  “It was another life,” Milapo told her comfortingly. “That’s what it meant, that night of terror — the Initiation of the Bat. You can put it all away from you.”

  “I miss my family,” confided Jovai. “I miss my sisters and my master most of all. I know he misses me. I know he’s listening and maybe, somehow, he knows every time I betray him, and it breaks his heart.”

  “He’s a good man, no doubt,” said Milapo, although she did not sound as if she believed it. “But now you are an adult, and you must make your own life. He’s not here to see what you need to do. I’ve let seven of my own children go already. Two directly to death but five I got to see married first. Every one of them made so many mistakes I often thought I must have failed as a parent. Most of the mistakes were things Difsat or I or our elders had warned them about, and they went out and did just what we had told them not to do. Every single mistake every one of them made I felt. I suffered from them, I think, more than they did. But after everything, they all made good lives for themselves. Even in these troubled times, as far as I know, every one of them had more happiness than not. Three of them may still be alive, if the spirits are willing, and if they are, they’re still making mistakes and doing things I told them not to do. Well, after living almost forty years I’m still disobeying my own parents. It’s wiser to listen. It’s wiser to learn from the mistakes of your elders and not have to make them again. But eventually you find that you are not your elders, and the rules they made for their lives don’t all apply to you. You compromise a little. You make yourself what they want you to be, and you make yourself what you want to be, and above all, you do what you have to do to survive and be happy. Among your people, that might have meant pretending you were a boy and never getting married, but here and now it means accepting that you are a woman, finding a good husband and having lots of beautiful, healthy babies.”

  “If I do that, then I can’t go back. I can’t see Yaku Shaman again. Not ever.”

  Milapo pulled her closer and gently kissed away a tear on her cheek.

  “No one ever goes back. Childhood passes and is gone. It happens sometimes that people are born to the wrong family or even the wrong people. You are very lucky, and we are very lucky, that the spirits have been pleased to lead you here where you belong.”

  Jovai hugged her, grateful for her kindness and patience. She felt closer to Milapo than she ever had to any woman. She felt certain that she was in the arms of the best mother she could ever have.

  It was almost morning before they returned. Both the women were exhausted and yet very pleased with the long night they had spent. Jovai worked at the dispensary with her that morning and took a cooking lesson from her for the breakfast and later for the dinner.

  She had expected Koban to come as usual, for her lesson, but he did not come that day. Nor did he come the next day, although that evening, among the musicians in the trees, she heard one of such pure sweetness she thought it must be him.

  “How go your lessons?” asked Difsat on the third day, catching up with her as she worked in the fields.

  “I haven’t seen my teacher since the feast.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not a sign. Perhaps he feels his work is finished.”

  Difsat frowned. “He hasn’t been dismissed yet.”

  “He has probably just been busy.”

  “Too busy to do his duty? We’ll see!” and he stormed off before Jovai could stop him.

  Koban appeared a couple of hours later and signaled her away from work.

  “I’ve talked to Difsat,” he told her, leading her away from the camp.

  “I’m sorry he was angry…”

  “He was right to be,” interrupted Koban. “I handled it badly. I told him that I have taught you as much as I could and I think, now, you should be taught by a woman.”

  “You liked me better as a boy, didn’t you?”

  “It has nothing to do with liking you,” he told her sullenly. He kept his face turned away so she could not see his expression. “I just don’t have anything more to teach you.”

  “You mean I know everything you know? I’m perfect in etiquette? I no longer say or do stupid things?”

  “You’re being stupid right now,” he answered.

  “So? Are you still my teacher or not?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up a stone at his feet and flung it as far as his strong arm could throw it.

  “He said I was fortunate to have the rare opportunity to teach a woman how to be a woman that men would like, without too much interference from other women.”

  “You, of course, told him you thought it impossible that I would ever be a woman that men would like.”

  He shot a dark look at her but turned away before answering.

  “I told him I didn’t think I was capable.”

  “And he laughed.”

  “Were you listening?” he demanded angrily.

  “No. But he could either laugh or be insulted, and he likes you too much to be insulted.”

  “You know him so well,” said Koban, upset, “you tell me what I should say!”

  “You think I haven’t tried every argument I can think of? If I had any more, I’d already have used them.”

  “Why?” he demanded. He stopped walking, grabbed her arm, and roughly pulled her to face him. “I’ve been a good teacher to you!”

  “You’ve been a horrible, arrogant bully. Ever since the Gicok left with his horses, you haven’t had o
ne good word to say to me. You’ve abused me, insulted me and humiliated me.”

  “You needed it!”

  “Like I need a plague! You know nothing about me — nothing about who I am, where I come from or why I do the things I do. I have a whole life behind me that you can’t even begin to imagine. I have to relearn everything I ever thought I knew and you haven’t helped.”

  “If you thought there were things I should know why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  “I didn’t think you’d tell me!”

  “I didn’t think you’d care!”

  They stood, staring at each other in angry silence. Jovai was on guard, unsure of what the man might do. The tension between them was almost overwhelming. He jerked her closer then flushed and let her go.

  “It’s too late,” he said. “You’ve already learned enough women’s tricks to make any man crazy.”

  “How would you know? You’re already crazy.”

  “I’ve noticed. I’ve watched the men who bring you water while you work and hang around your tent trying to find things to do for your family. They carve your name in their flutes and beg your brothers and sister for clippings of your nails or strands of your hair for love potions. They ask me to steal things for them or to speak well of them to you. Some even plant seeds in the dirt where you walked, hoping your love will grow as the plant does. Are you stupid enough to choose a husband who would do such foolish things?”

  “Why is it foolish? A plant takes time to grow and so does love. I can admire a man who would wait. With enough time, maybe I could love him.” She shrugged. “With enough time, I could even love you.”

  Koban turned to her, his brown-red face suddenly pale, his dark eyes holding hers with a terrible intensity.

  “You can love me?” he demanded, his voice hardly a whisper but filled with the sound of suspicion and anger and something more Jovai could not recognize.

  “Given enough time,” she answered with a shrug, “I will probably be dead, and the mountains will be dust long before…”