Shadow Valley

by Steven Barnes

  Her mentor nodded. “Some things in this world are worthy of fear. Something crouches in my darkness, something to do with—” she closed her milky eyes “—lions.” She turned to T’Cori. “Was there something about the Vokka and the lions? Something you should tell Frog?”

  T’Cori closed her eyes. Within that divine darkness she watched the glowing num-threads spin off her body out into an umbilical connecting her to the coming years. Her body was a hollow gourd, filled with light. The soul vine whispered of courage and cowardice, purpose and ability. When all those jowk walked toward the same horizon, it was a magical thing.

  T’Cori thought about that, and dreamed. The next day she went to Frog, telling him of the way the Vokka had fought the lions.

  And that very night, he went to their new friends, asking that they show him their hunting ways.

  The lion dance was a three-man ritual, with one man playing the part of the cat. The other two practiced staying in time and distance with each other so that no matter how the lion attacked, their weapons were perfectly poised to strike. They moved like mated eagles, turning and diving in harmony.

  For days Stillshadow listened to the sound of the men thrusting and dancing, until finally she shook her head.

  “What is it, Old Mother?” Quiet Water asked at last.

  “The stick sound has no music” she said. “I know little of hunting, but something of dance and drum. There is something that the hunt chiefs had that the Vokka lack. That Frog and Snake lack. There is no music in their step. Teach them,” she said. “Teach them our dances.”

  “Our dances?” T’Cori said, shocked. “But hunting is a man’s thing….”

  “Once, it was,” Stillshadow said. “Once, Cloud Stalker held the men’s secrets, as I did those of the women. But that time has passed. Teach them what you know.”

  And obeying, T’Cori had tried to teach, and the men struggled to learn.

  Stillshadow listened to the clatter of sticks and did not hear what she wanted. The men stumbled over their feet and crashed into one another and banged one another with sticks. And inevitably, they grew frustrated that they could not learn in days what it had taken years for dream dancers to master.

  “I have an idea,” T’Cori said. “What works for women might work for men. Here in the valley are the makings of dance tea. I have seen the mushrooms, the leaves, and … even a bit of strangleweed.”

  Stillshadow laughed. “But just a bit,” she said. “Just a spice of death. Enough to crack their egg.”

  The next day the women—with many guards and an eye for lions— picked the spices and herbs and even the spotted mushrooms necessary to make the dance tea.

  The brew stank, and it tasted even worse than it smelled. At first Frog thought that it had no power. Then after a time he realized his feet were numb, as if he was floating a fist’s width above the ground. The air pulsed as if he were floating within a living heart. As the dream dancers moved around him, they left glowing pathways in the air, and he had but to move within those paths, like walking in tall grass behind an elephant.

  Never had he felt the num so clearly. He danced with both hunters and dancers. All night they gyrated. When they lifted the spears again, it was as if the weapons moved by themselves. The women taught them the dance moves, and they crouched and leapt until their sweat dried and it was long past dawn.

  And it was good.

  And so as days passed, they taught and shared the ways of men and women, the ways of Vokka and Ibandi. T’Cori gave everything she had to every dance up until the time that, half a moon before anyone would have expected it, she felt a warm slickness upon her thighs, and knew that her water had broken.

  Frog’s sister, Little Brook, and T’Cori broke water upon the same day, which many considered a sign of very good luck indeed.

  Usually, Ibandi women gave birth surrounded by their closest female family. Bhan often birthed alone, day or night, whether or not the bush was dangerous with lions or the spirits of the dead.

  Often a bhan woman would not even say that she was about to give birth, unless it was her first child, in which case her mother or aunt might help her.

  But whether surrounded by family or alone, it was both Ibandi and bhan custom that a woman might clench her teeth or let the tears flow, but never cry out or show her pain. A test of womanhood, perhaps a preparation for times when an enemy or predator might lurk near a hiding woman in the throes of childbirth.

  Stillshadow offered up her own shelter as a birthing hut large enough for five to sit in comfort. Despite its generous length and breadth, with two women sitting with legs wide, and four more clustered to help, it was hot and dank.

  Little Brook clutched T’Cori’s hand until her nails sank through brown skin to draw red blood. When the pains became very strong and very close together, T’Cori’s sisters and Frog’s mother, Gazelle Tears, prepared a bed of grass for them and helped them stand so that they could crouch over the twin beds.

  Little Brook gave birth first, moaning and biting her hand so that the blood ran but never screaming. Her son emerged into the world onto his bed of grass, and after the cord was sawed off, he was cleaned and placed in her arms to suckle.

  T’Cori watched as Gazelle Tears gathered the stained grass and tissue, and carried them out of the hut. She would find a place in the brush and bury them, marking the spot with a cairn so that no hunter would step upon it and lose his power to hunt.

  Then T’Cori’s body clenched like a fist, driving all thought from her mind.

  The muscles deep within her danced in a rhythm older than thought. Although she made little sound, inside her head she screamed. It felt as if her body was tearing itself apart, and she clutched at Sing Sun’s arm until her sister’s flesh tore.

  “Push!” they whispered to her, and she bore down as strongly as she could. “Push!” they said again, mopping the sweat from her brow. And then …

  She heard a cry, a newborn cry, the sweetest sound she had heard in her life. At that moment, she could have died, and been happy to do so.

  “A girl,” Sing Sun said.

  “Give me my child,” T’Cori said, and the baby was given to her. T’Cori gazed into her daughter’s eyes, which stared blindly out into the world …

  And then …

  They fixed upon her mother’s face. She cried, howled, announcing her birth to the world.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  When the Ibandi first laid eyes upon the towering, thick-rooted fig tree in the valley’s center, its branches already buzzed with tiny, winged life. To celebrate the first births in Shadow Valley, the men decided to raid it for honey.

  Like hunting, honey gathering was men’s work. The lowest hive was located in a branch higher than ten men standing on each other’s shoulders. Both Vokka and Ibandi had been stung upon even casual approach.

  This, Frog thought, was a good thing. Stinging bees always guarded the best honey!

  Gathering the sweet, sticky stuff was a painful pursuit, but the rewards were well worth it. A hand of volunteers from each group, Ibandi and Vokka, offered to brave the stingers.

  At dusk, ten men crept to the tree and boosted one another up the trunk. The Vokka were slightly better climbers, and Tall One was the first to reach the fist-wide crevice in the tree trunk. Within that darkness hung the chosen cluster of pale combs. They looked like rows of huge grubs nestled together side to side.

  Tall One gestured to Frog, and Frog climbed up beside him, carrying a leather pouch of embers and green grass. Together they blew on it until the sparks flared, wafting smoke into the crevice. Frog winced as a bee stung him on the cheek and another on the hand.

  God Mountain, that hurt!

  But those were the only stings, and after a time the bees grew sleepy and uninterested. With two swift slices the Vokka cut the hive open, pulled out sections of honeycomb and threw them down.

  The tribesmen on the ground caught the chunks with their hands wrapped in broad palm lea
ves. They ran off, slapping at the waking bees. If they could get away before the bees recovered from the smoke, all would be well. But otherwise, it was going to be a long and very painful day.

  The groggy insects were everywhere, clinging to the comb, sticking to their skin, but the thieves were away in time: a few welts on arms and legs could not diminish the sweetness of victory.

  The brew of honey and herbs was delicious and potent, thinning the wall between the dream and human worlds. The Vokka smoked and danced with them until dawn, welcoming the new children into a new home, beneath a new sky.

  T’Cori held their new child to one breast, and Medicine Mouse to her other. Her milk had descended and she was happy to nurse her children at last. Frog stretched his arms around the three of them. Perhaps they could not have the marriage ceremony, but he would have life with her, here in Shadow Valley. He would gladly step into the circle with anyone, man or giant, who denied that T’Cori was his woman or that this was his family.

  The Vokka were so different: strange in custom, broad-faced and bleached-bone ugly. Frog heard all his people saying these things, but he also realized that the Vokka probably thought similar things of them.

  Soon, Frog hoped, would come a naming ceremony. With luck, Still-shadow would decide to remain in this world long enough to give T’Cori’s newborn girl a name. But that was for her to decide, not Frog or any other man.

  He was very tired, and glad for the time to stare up at the dark clouds. He wondered if the Vokka could see things that the Ibandi could not. They knew different things … and if the Ibandi seemed to learn the Vokka ways faster than the Vokka learned the Ibandi’s, still, perhaps …

  He pointed up into the sky. “Cloud,” he said. “Face.”

  Tall One frowned. “Cloud. Face? Where face?”

  Frog sighed. Then again, perhaps not. Not like him, not like Ibandi, not like Mk*tk. The Vokka might almost have been monkeys, the way they never seemed to tire of grooming each other. Or of entertaining their fellows with mimed stories of hunting and screwing and spirits of the dead, falling over and rolling on the ground in fits of laughter as long as the fire threw sparks into the night sky.

  Tall One loved to dance, and that night walked on all fours, miming great size and strength, pretending to have twin tusks and a long, agile nose.

  When he had finished, Tall One knelt to draw in the dust. T’Cori watched carefully, and then translated. “He says that this dance was taught him by his granduncle, who learned it from his. He says that our elephants are naked, and theirs were much larger and covered with hair.”

  What a thought! The Ibandi had a great good laugh at that. The Vokka were wonderful liars, indeed!

  As the days passed, Frog struggled to think more deeply. What if Still-shadow was right? Could vital knowledge have been lost when the hunt chiefs died on Great Sky? Would it even be possible to find those knowings once again?

  Late on one lazy day, when the Vokka were sharing gathered fruit with their camp, Frog tried to communicate his concern to them. “You have taught us many things, and we would share with you in return. We have mixed the men’s and women’s magic, and found it good. You have been good friends, and we wish to share what we have found with you.”

  His expression uninterested, Tall One danced his answer, and T’Cori struggled in translation. “No. We have no need to learn these things.”

  Stillshadow was seated on her new sitting stone. He had thought her to be off in her own world, but she responded. “I have seen you practice with spears for the hunt.”

  When T’Cori translated, Tall One snorted in disbelief, and danced. “Seen? You are a blind woman. What can you see?”

  “Only my face-eyes have dimmed,” Stillshadow replied. “I see more now than I ever did. You are very brave, and all of you have been hurt many times.”

  The hunter shrugged his scarred, sun-burnt shoulders. “It is our place in the world.”

  Stillshadow continued. “We can teach you new things. Ways to catch flesh without so many wounds. Ways to turn plants into allies, poisons to bring the giraffe to their knees, offering their throats to your knife. We have medicines to heal your bones.”

  The Vokka hunter huffed. “We have our own medicines.”

  “You say your grandfather’s fathers came here, from many horizons to the north,” T’Cori said. “But all Ibandi fathers, since the beginning, have lived in this land. What we have learned, we remember. Many of your ways work well here, or you would not live. But others, not so well I think.”

  Tall One’s expression remained flat and unreadable. “What do you want?”

  T’Cori did not answer him directly. “I share my healing arts, everything I know.”

  The hunter watched her eyes, knowing that there were many things unsaid. Still, he nodded. He danced. And from time to time he paused to draw in the dust, as the Vokka women struggled to interpret Ibandi words.

  T’Cori translated for Frog. “He says there may be good in this. He fights for his women and children, because it is what he must do. He says they are our friends. But he and his people need nothing from us. If he takes from us, he must give in return. He says that this is the only reason anyone ever gives anything. They give so that later, they can take.”

  T’Cori looked to Stillshadow. “Mother? You have heard. What do you say?”

  Stillshadow blinked, as if her eyes were irritated by the warm dry wind ruffling the grass. “The Vokka are our friends, as much as they can be. But if trouble comes, we must help ourselves.”

  “How can we,” T’Cori asked, “when so much was lost to us?”

  The old blind woman was silent for so long that Frog began to study her chest, just to be certain she had not finally surrendered the jowk. Then she spoke. “We must go back to the beginning. What the hunt chiefs knew is buried with them. But Cloud Stalker and I were together most of our days. Whatever I taught you was touched by him, as what he taught the chiefs was touched by me. Share what we do know. T’Cori, teach the dances to your man. Somewhere at the core of them is what they need. It is in the dance. I know it. I feel it. At the core of all is nothing. And the nothing becomes something because of dance. That,” she said, “is all there is.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  When hunting with the Vokka, Frog noted their amazement that the Ibandi threw their spears. The Vokka, in contrast, were expert stalkers, capable of sneaking within stabbing range of a buffalo. Despite the thickness of their bodies, they moved almost as silently as shadows.

  And the wolves! The Vokka’s four-legged companions did not hunt the way humans did: they ran their prey down, nipping at the ankles and legs of zebra or impala until the terrified and exhausted creature stumbled and fell. Then, the wolves were upon it in a killing frenzy. When they killed, they actually shared with the men. When a man speared or wounded an animal, the wolves dragged it down and ripped out its throat. When their squat, pale, human companions came close, the wolves went into an odd kind of semitrance, growling deep in their throats but not snapping as the Vokka carved the prey into pieces.

  However, if an Ibandi came near, those deep-throated growls grew more menacing. Their eyes grew brighter. Thus far, no Ibandi had come within biting distance of a Vokka wolf. No one wished to be the first to test those teeth.

  Ibandi and Vokka hunted for food and for sport, and sometimes their new friends came to the Ibandi camp just to amuse themselves with Quiet Water or T’Cori’s efforts at translation. It was on one of the hunting expeditions that Frog discovered a familiar bush: dark green stems, little red flowers, as broad as it was tall.

  “Look at the poison-grub bush,” Frog said.

  “Poi-sen,” said Tall One.

  “The juice goes on the spear,” Frog said. “The spear kills with a scratch.”

  Quiet Water translated haltingly. The Vokka men struck their spears angrily on the ground.

  “What are they saying?” Frog asked, curiosity fully stirred.

  “They
say that this is cowardly. That with such things, any woman could kill an elephant.”

  Frog’s face went hot. “Cowardly? Because I wish to feed my family, I have no heart?” He hawked, thinking to spit into the dust at their feet, and then changed his mind and walked away. “Tell them what I said,” he called over his shoulder.

  When he returned to the camp, he told Stillshadow what had happened. He had to repeat it three times before she seemed aware that he was standing in front of her. She raised her wrinkled hand. “No, Frog! Listen to me. They have their own ways. You say they have many scars. How do they justify those wounds, their broken bones, except by believing their gods demand that they pay such a price? What we offer them will take time.”

  “How do you see so much with only five eyes?”

  The old woman smiled. “How do you see so little with seven?”

  From that point forward, a women’s circle, combining the ways of Ibandi and Vokka, met almost every night

  When Stillshadow roused herself from trance and sang with them or for them, her voice and fragile dance held them rapt. “We are the ones who bring the men into this world.”

  The Vokka woman called Old Young spoke in word and sign and symbol. “Eight have I brought through my body. The last almost killed me.” She slapped her knee. “But I am here! And he is tall and strong.”

  Stillshadow nodded. “We lose our teeth bringing them into the world.”

  T’Cori and Sing Sun scrambled to translate back and forth.

  “A tooth for every child!” Old Young said.

  “Men see the things,” T’Cori said, dancing and gesturing as she did. Sing Sun drew glyphs in the dirt to clarify. At times, T’Cori had to pause, find new ways to say the things she needed to say. It made for painfully slow communication, but their speed increased a little every day.

  She continued. “But men miss the web between things. It is our place to see these, as we see the past and the days to come.”

  “We are women,” Old Young said. “We hold the world together.”