Storykeeper

by Daniel A Smith

  I hoped for a smile, but her lips tightened as she pushed past me. I followed her around the canal, past the north gate, and toward the Little Muddy. My heart and mind wrestled in a search for the right words.

  “Tell me how you would explain what you have seen today?” she asked when we reached the riverbank.

  I shrugged my shoulders while screaming inside, Say something. Say something!

  Saswanna glared at me, waiting for an answer. I looked away, up to the huge birch tree stretching out over the river. I had always been able to talk to her, I thought as I pulled down a dead branch.

  I broke off the end and threw it over the dried shoreline into the river. She turned and watched it float away. I broke and threw in another piece. The silence deepened with each new crack of the dried wood.

  Saswanna snapped, “Stop that.”

  I flung the branch into the river. The muddy waters carried it silently out of sight. “Let me tell you what my uncle did this morning.” I had to say something, but the moment I did, I wished I had not.

  Saswanna shook her finger at me. “If you cannot believe what I say, then I know I do not want to hear what your uncle said.” She walked away.

  I did not follow.

  “Someday, I will be a man of respect, and my words will be sought out,” I said, but not loud enough for her to hear. I spun around and shouted at the river, “Someday. You will see.”

  I crossed the dried riverbed to the water’s edge. I had never seen it so low. Baked by the summer sun, the barren strip of sand and clay curled up and cracked like so many broken pots. I walked upriver, crunching the dried clay with my feet. It stung with a pain I could understand—somehow that felt good.

  “Saswanna ... Saswanna.” I wanted to see her. I wanted to apologize, to take back everything I had said. I wanted to hear her sweet voice. I could do none of those things. It was time to be at my uncle’s lodge.

  Aunt Miluka waited in the front of the lodge. “Stay here until called,” she said, and went inside.

  I began to pace, wondering what my uncle would say. Finally, I slumped down next to the entrance and thought just of Saswanna.

  “Taninto,” my uncle called.

  I stepped into his lodge.

  “Son of my only sister, come.” He motioned for me to sit at the fire. Two woven mats lay on either side. A buffalo robe covered the mat north of the fire. A smooth, well-tanned beaver skin stretched across the other. I sat on the south side, hoping I had not failed in my choice.

  Uncle Tecco sat on the buffalo robe. “Taninto, enjoy my gifts,” he said and, motioned for the feasting bowls to be brought out. The two daughters and my aunt placed all four bowls in front of me and left the lodge.

  I ate in silence while my uncle filled his pipe. When I had eaten all that he wished, he waved his hand and stood. I set the bowls aside. Still without a word, he lit his pipe. With his first draw, he blew smoke up to the sky and down to Grandmother Earth. Another long draw and he blew smoke in each of the four sacred directions.

  He turned back to the fire and began to chant, “Sacred smoke, purify this lodge. Sacred smoke, purify this circle. Sacred smoke, purify this man.”

  Uncle Tecco loomed over me. The eagle tattooed across his left eye from chin to his topknot seemed ready to swoop. He offered the pipe—a sight of wonderment that I had only seen once before. I felt its power the moment it touched my hand. I did not want to choke and only pretended to take a deep draw.

  “Listen well,” he said.

  I slowly exhaled into the fire.

  “As a young man, I had a vision in which I saw a great change coming to the people of Casqui—war growing from peace and sickness flowing from reverence. I feel that time is close at hand.”

  He took the pipe from me and sat. “Close also is the change within you, the time when you will become a man. That path cannot be complete without training and proper ritual. Even so, I fear if you do not walk as a man soon, your time may never come.”

  I did not understand what he meant, but I nodded.

  “You are a boy of great stamina with regard for all things.” His silver ear spools sparkled in the firelight as he spoke. “I know you will toil and question until you understand all that is needed to become a man.”

  “Taninto, you partook of my food as a boy.” He waved his arms. “Rise now, a man, and receive my blessings. Look behind you, beneath the skin. It is a feza, the hat of manhood for our clan. You did not kill the bear from which it was made as is our way, but I know you will meet that challenge in time.”

  I had seen my uncle wear it on many occasions. I felt different as soon as I put it on. My whole body stretched to fit: my shoulders wider, my heart beat stronger and my head swelled.

  “Tecco, honored brother of my mother, I am indebted by your gift and your trust.” My words felt hopelessly inadequate. It seemed as though in two days I had lost my ability to speak. I backed toward the doorway, hoping to escape any more ceremony. I wanted to find Saswanna. She would respect me now. Everyone would. She would have to forgive me for not believing.

  “Taninto, you have not yet earned the honor needed to wear that hat,” he proclaimed. “Tomorrow, and only tomorrow, you are given permission to wear it in tribute. You will walk beside me dressed in your hat of manhood when our people welcome the one some are calling the Son of the Sun.”

  The Son of the Sun! Could Saswanna be right?

  “Take it off for now,” he said.

  I removed the hat, but I still had to get out of the lodge. I needed to jump, run and yell. I had to see Saswanna. The fire roared above the silence. I did not know what to say or how to leave.

  Finally, my uncle said, “You may go.”

  Outside, the endless night sky seemed full of possibilities. I ran in leaps toward Saswanna’s lodge, but shortened my steps as I came closer, then passed it by. What would I say? Saswanna, I have a feza, but I cannot wear it.

  I wandered back to the river where we last spoke. The warm water swirled around my legs as I waded in. I buried myself in the river and let the current carry me past the west wall. From down in the river, the Temple Mound loomed high above like a mountain. From that place of power, a blazing fire could be seen by the villages up and down the river and off to the east.

  The ancestors had built up the land on which Casqui sat to protect it from the spring floods. They dug a canal around it to feed and water the people. They built walls on all sides to defend against attacks. How could a wandering band of strangers be more powerful than this place?

  Could I be wrong? Could Saswanna be right? Either way, I knew tomorrow our world would change.

  Chapter 12

  Manaha’s Journey

  Ninety-four years after “their” arrival

  Manaha finished her story with a sigh. The small fire hissed back. She made no effort to save it. Nine-Rivers Valley must have been wonderful, she thought. All of her images of that land and time came from her grandfather’s stories. Only now did she realize how important they were to her and the tribe.

  “I wish I could have seen it as it was,” she mumbled while her shadow listeners slipped away. She did not always hear the listener who hid behind her, but she had felt him since that first night.

  The storyteller studied the long splinter that she had taken from the center of the lightning-struck oak tree. An offering of three shavings from that special wood became an important part of her ritual. She had carved away ever-smaller pieces, giving little thought to the form revealing itself—a light, stout walking stick. Leaning on it, she stood and turned toward the creek in search of a breeze.

  She followed a path cut through the steep bank that surrounded the island down to the water’s edge. Here, the creek spread wide and shallow. She hung her shawl over her walking stick and propped it against a young sapling. For a moment, she thought about bringing the stick with her into the creek.

  The water seemed warmer than the day before. She waded upstream toward the village. Cl
ear sky surrounded a moon—bright, but not yet full. The threatening clouds from earlier in the day had vanished. A breath of wind brushed past her, carrying the soft murmur of young lovers. Smiling at their joy, she sank into the dark, gentle current.

  Manaha rose early the next day so she could be in the fields well before the heat. No one else came to tend the crops, but she did not mind working alone. Twice she glimpsed a group of boys watching her from a distance. One of those could be her faithful listener.

  “What am I thinking?” she asked. “I believe he is a boy. How can I know that?” I do not know that there are any listeners at all, she thought, but refused to say it out loud.

  She worked until she had added to and packed down a bowl shape into the top of the hill around the base of each cornstalk. This late in the season, it should have been their third hilling. Father Sun had not reached the top of his climb, but it already felt too hot to be in the open. Manaha retreated to the shade and spent the afternoon chasing away crows—usually the task of young boys, now just another neglected duty.

  Late in the day, Manaha heard shouting and yelps coming from the village. When she reached the plaza, a crowd had already gathered. A swarm of boys shouldered Gasapa, the oldest of them and the youngest boy to have gone with the hunting party. They carried him around the plaza like a hero.

  He raised his arms. The boys struggled as Gasapa straightened his back.

  “Listen all,” he shouted, “I bring the words of Hazaar.” He paused and then said, “The hunting grounds are empty.”

  Everyone gasped, some for breath, others for the hope of better words.

  Gasapa continued, “Hazaar says, ‘As chosen leader bearing the trust of many and the counsel of Ta-kawa, I have turned the party toward the Akamsa River. Our scouts have spotted herds of elk and buffalo on the far side. Rejoice, people of Hachie. You will soon have meat to fill your bellies and skins to cover your bodies.’”

  The boys lowered Gasapa to the ground. The message offered hope to some and uncertainty to others. Tulla, a nation of mystery, lay somewhere on the other side of the river. Their people spoke an unknown language. They did not plant or trade and were known to be vicious in war. Never had they crossed north of the river, and until now, no one from Hachia had ventured into their land.

  In a few days, the people would be either celebrating or grieving. Anxiety could be seen in every unguarded eye. Someone shouted, “Gasapa, tell us. What did Ta-kawa say?”

  “Ta-kawa?” Manaha questioned a little too loud.

  Everyone heard her and looked away. She wished someone would turn on her. She could fight that, but they just stepped aside as she marched through the crowd.

  “Do you think Ta-kawa’s words matter over that of Hazaar, Elder of the White Lodge?”

  Two from the crowd shouted, “Gasapa, tell us what Ta-kawa said.”

  Gasapa stretched as tall as he could. “As a trusted messenger, I can give you no more than my charge.”

  He repeated the message again and then again, for any who would ask. Manaha could learn nothing more, but she stayed with the crowd. They would have to push her out if they wanted her to leave. Not a true relation to the tribe, she had been captured during a raid many winters ago. Only hard work, devotion to the clan of her dead husband, and her age had given her any standing.

  More than an outsider, Manaha had become a ghost: one who worked and moved among the women and old men of her tribe, but seen only by the children. As such, she saw a larger world than most, hidden from view by their daily struggle. Farming and hunting were necessary and important, but without a connection to the past, their efforts would always be incomplete.

  Manaha left the village in her own time, but hurried back to the island. More than fulfillment or joy, she had come to need her storytelling. Once darkness and the last unseen listeners had settled in around her, she began her ritual, chanting and circling the flames three times. As she dropped in the third offering of lightning wood, she caught a glimmer of firelight twinkling in a pair of wide eyes back deep in the shadows. She turned to them and boasted, “I, Manaha, will tell all the stories that I know.”

  Chapter 13: Grandfather’s Last Day

  Nanza’s Journey

  Forty-nine years after “their” arrival

  A girl of just twelve winters, I woke from my first night in the forest to a rush of emotions and meaningless chanting. “Stop that!” I said.

  Grandfather chanted louder.

  I rolled over, my back to him. Taninto’s valley was home as far as my memory reached. I missed the roar of the Buffalo River and the wide, open meadows. Father Sun smiled on every rock. In the dense mountain forest, huge trees with thick branches, even without leaves, blocked most of the sunlight.

  I had my fill of change. I did not want to feel different. I wanted the same. My heart ached for our lodge and the valley. I longed for the child I was.

  I flung off my bedding, put on my moccasins, and jumped to my feet. Taninto was still chanting.

  I turned in circles, kicked my bedding, kicked until dirt flew into the fire. He stopped.

  I grabbed up my bedding and bundle. “I am going back,” I said over my shoulder and set out, without plan or means. My determination was blind and my march short.

  Yanked from my stride, I fell backward onto the ground. Grandfather glared down at me. His fist clenched in a knot of my hair, his face full of anger.

  I screamed and pulled at his only hand with both of mine. He jerked me to my feet. We stumbled and fought all the way back to the campsite. He shoved me to the ground.

  “You are not going back.” His face hardened.

  I struggled to stand. “All this time, you let me believe you were my grandfather. You are not my family.” Fighting the tears, I shouted, “You are not my grandfather.”

  A hush fell over the morning songs. Finally, he said, “Your words are sharp. Their cut is deeper than you will ever know.” One shoulder dropped. “I did deceive you about your family. I lied to protect you.”

  I turned away. I did not want him to see me cry.

  “Now listen, Nanza look at me,” he said. “The truth is you are deep in the mountains and I am your only guide. It is also true that I am not your grandfather ... nor can I ever be.”

  Those words changed the man before me. He stood newly unburdened and determined. “I am Taninto, the Wanderer,” he said.

  After a time, he spoke in the calm, reassuring voice I knew so well. “I will take you to Palisema, but you must do as I say.”

  Grandfather, Taninto the Wanderer, or my guide—I did not care what name he wanted. I was not going to speak to him again.

  He handed me a strip of smoked fish. “Roll up your bedding, proper. We have a long day ahead.”

  I did believe he could lead us out of the mountains. Beyond that, I had lost faith in the things he said. I followed in his path, but never looked up at him. Head bent, I stumbled over rocky slopes through the bushes, briars, and the maze of countless trees.

  When he stopped and whispered, “Nanza, look.” I refused.

  “Nanza, a white squirrel.” Still whispering, he showed his amazement. “A white squirrel.”

  Curiosity overpowered my mood. I looked in the direction that he pointed. On a limb high up in a black walnut tree, a white tail fluttered in the sunlight as if to say, Here I am, the grand White Squirrel. White as a cloud, except for a thin gray streak that ran up his back to the noble head he held high as he surveyed his domain.

  “A white squirrel is a rare creature, which I have never seen.” He tried to catch my smile. “This is a good sign for our journey.”

  The white squirrel stood so regal, high above my world. Could he see where the mountains stop from his perch? As graceful as an eagle, he soared to the branch of another tree. A wave of his tail and he vanished around the trunk—another flash of white before he faded into the gray tangle of bare limbs and the reddish brown of new buds.

  “This is a good sign,”
my guide said again and stepped off in the direction of the white squirrel.

  Squirrel or not, I still had nothing to say, but I found that I could no longer keep my head down. I searched the forest for the white squirrel. I studied the trees, and they opened their branches to me. For the first time, I began to appreciate their beauty, to admire their strength and generosity. If as he often said, “All things listen; all things speak,” then trees must have a great lot to say, were one only patient enough.

  The forest thinned to a small meadow with a stream, little more than a stride across.

  “This is good water. You must be thirsty,” my guide said.

  He stooped beside the stream. “It is cool and sweet. Drink some.”

  I waited until he had his fill, jumped the stream, and marched off. I made myself heard without having spoken a word.

  At my side in a few steps, he led the way by the time we entered the forest again. I had to follow him. I could never find my way alone, not to the land of my ancestors, or even back to the valley of my youth.

  We traveled from mountaintop to mountaintop, staying just below the ridge line. He watched the horizon constantly for campfire smoke and avoided valleys when he could.

  “I have a guide who is afraid of the whole world,” I mumbled behind his back.

  We came to another stream.

  “You need to drink.”

  I walked on.

  “Look, Nanza, the first flowers of spring,” he said as we approached a third stream.

  I stepped over the purple clumps growing in the rocky channel, knelt at the stream and drank slow and long.

  With daylight nearly gone, we climbed to the upper side of a small clearing. He stopped and untied his walking stick. Mountain ridges stretched to the eastern horizon in ever fading shades of blue. I found little hope in the sight.