‘Grannie Kush! Give me something to offer around!’ the girl begged her.
‘Come here so I can straighten your clothes a bit,’ said her grandmother. She tied the straps on her little leather boots, straightened the cap with earflaps that framed her face with strips of colour, and made sure above all that her cloak was properly done up. While she was doing this, Wilkilén stared up at the wind above the valley, imitating it by blowing out her cheeks and stretching her arms out as though they were the branches of a tree.
‘I would be done more quickly if you kept still,’ said Kush.
Wilkilén lowered her gaze from the sky, still lost in thought.
‘I wanted to know if people grow tired of being the wind,’ she said, lowering her arms. She added: ‘Yes, they do.’
Kush looked at her granddaughter, remembering the golden oriole feather. She hugged the little girl to her, and kissed her freezing cheeks to try to calm the fears that had suddenly come rushing back. Then she immediately set about granting her granddaughter’s wish.
‘Let’s see what I have to give you,’ she murmured, partly for her own sake, partly for Wilkilén. She hesitated, then chose a medium-sized pot in which she had made a thick paste of nuts and herbs. Perfect for spreading on bread.
‘Take it like this so that they can serve themselves,’ she said, pushing several wooden sticks into the paste. ‘It will be well received.’
Wilkilén went off with the pot, carefully watching where she put her feet. Old Mother Kush stared after her. Just when she was almost out of sight, Kush saw Dulkancellin striding towards her.
Her son was looking for her. They had to go together to talk to Shampalwe’s family, who had come all the way from Wilú-Wilú.
‘Are you ready, Kush?’ he asked her.
‘Yes. Take the presents I have brought for them out of my pack and let’s go.’
They walked away without another word. It was not easy for either of them to see Shampalwe’s eyes again in the faces of her brothers and sisters. But the gathering in the valley was one of the few occasions when they could see the children and hear the latest news. Wilú-Wilú stood at the foot of the Maduinas Mountains, a long way from Whirlwind Pass, so that they could meet up only a few times each year.
The sky was rapidly turning dark; the air was growing colder. Sheltered in the valley, the Husihuilkes stared up at the wind above their heads just as Wilkilén had done, and predicted it would be a hard journey home. The celebration would soon be over, and one single question was on everyone’s lips: where is Kupuka?
Kupuka was not in the Valley of the Ancestors. The Earth Wizard, who saw further than anyone and knew the language of the drums, had not arrived as he usually did, his pack filled with mysteries, to await the arrival of the rain with everyone else. The Husihuilkes felt strangely abandoned, and wondered what the reason for his absence could be.
Someone who was not thinking about Kupuka heard the question repeated time and again, but paid no attention. Walking as if he wanted to remain invisible, he went through the mushroom ring and carried straight on. He took the track to the west until the route forked into a narrow path. Branching off from the main route, this path did not head uphill, but immediately went down a steep slope. After reaching here stealthily, the small fgure immediately started down at a surprising speed, compensating for the incline by leaning backwards. Almost at once, though, he heard a familiar voice calling to him:
‘Piukemán! Piukemán, wait for me!’
Somewhat surprised, but even more annoyed, Piukemán stopped and looked back. Wilkilén had followed him, and was coming down the path almost sitting down to avoid falling. Piukemán climbed back up towards her.
‘What are you doing here, Wilkilén?’ he shouted furiously. ‘You always spoil everything!’
‘I don’t ...’ the girl stammered. Piukemán cut her short:
‘Don’t say a word!’
Wilkilén’s black eyes brimmed with tears. As she always did when she was sad, she started playing with her plaits.
‘And don’t cry either!’
This only brought on more tears: Piukemán was her beloved brother, and he had never treated her like this before.
But Piukemán was no longer even looking at her. He was trying to decide whether to return to the Valley of the Ancestors, or to take his sister with him in his adventure. He could not let her go back on her own. Then again, if he missed this opportunity he would have to wait until the Festival of the Sun, and that seemed too far away. Taking Wilkilén by the hand, he started down the slope again.
The path the two of them had taken was the only one that reached the Owl Gateway, beyond which it was forbidden to go.
Of all the males in the family, Piukemán was the one who most resembled his mother. He had inherited from her a restless curiosity about everything. Shampalwe had paid with her life for her interest in the strange flowers from the cave. Piukemán too would one day pay a high price. Ever since he was of an age to understand, he had been asking what lay beyond the Owl Gateway and who had forbidden the Husihuilkes to go there. He had never received any answers, and so now he was determined to find out for himself. In previous years he had twice left the celebrations and ventured as far as the boundary of what was permitted. Twice he had been overcome by fear, and had returned without daring to disobey the ban that came from time immemorial. Now, though, Piukemán had lived through eleven rainy seasons, and refused to let another one go by without crossing the Owl Gateway. He would not be defeated a third time. Wilkilén’s sudden appearance made him hesitate, and yet he could not accept having to back down again. He decided to go on, even if he had to drag his sister by the hand.
The steep, narrow slope they climbed down with difficulty ended in a dark, gloomy hollow. The air was so cold and damp that it hurt when they drew breath. A deep carpet of leaves buoyed them up, so that they could continue without getting muddy. Plants of the shade proliferated at the foot of all the trees. Creepers, toadstools, and tiny worms that appeared whenever their feet dislodged a stone were the most obvious signs of life. Piukemán had been here before, so he strode on to join the path again, even though it seemed to be deliberately concealed. They zigzagged from side to side through thick vegetation as they advanced across the dark hollow. By now they were shivering, and their teeth were chattering. Not even the cloaks they wore wrapped tightly around them offered much protection because the damp cold rose from their feet. Then all at once the path straightened out and the undergrowth thinned. They had reached the Owl Gateway.
In front of them stood two enormous trees. The gap between them was about the width of a man with his arms outstretched. From a distance it was plain to see that the outline they made had the shape of an owl. Wilkilén and Piukemán stood motionless, staring at the silhouette of the bird of many names, close kin to the Earth Wizards.
Piukemán was the first to recover. With what he hoped resembled a gesture of defiance, he signalled to his sister that they should keep going. Clasping each other tightly by the hand, they stepped towards the Owl Gateway. As they drew closer, the outline of the owl became less clear, making it easier for them to pass through the forbidden gate.
Piukemán wanted to whistle to show he was not afraid, but the sound would not come. Not even Wilkilén, normally so talkative, could utter a word. Although everything around them seemed normal, never before had the forest made them feel so sad.
As it was, they did not manage to get much further. As they rounded a bend, in a clearing by the side of the path they caught sight of Kupuka. The Wizard did not seem to hear them. He was squatting down, his back towards them. In one hand he held a branch in the shape of a snake; with the other he was drawing something on the ground that the children could not make out. His silvery locks cascaded down his back, and below the deerskin cloak they could see his bare feet, toughened from walking through forests and over mountains.
Quickly, the two of them hid behind a bush, fearful of Kupuka’s reac
tion if he discovered them on this forbidden territory. The Earth Wizard was chanting a sacred chant. When he finished, he turned his head towards his heart, revealing his profile. As soon as they saw it, the children realized there was something different about it. This was not the face of the Kupuka they knew. The change was hard to define, but was no less terrifying for that. His faring nostrils quivered strangely. His chin was jutting forward, and his breathing had threads of colour in it. If the brother and sister had been able to move their legs, they would have run away as fast as they could, all the way back to Old Mother Kush’s welcoming arms. But their legs refused to move. All at once, Kupuka gave a howl and leapt to his feet. He sang words in a language they did not recognize. As the two petrified children looked on in horror, he began to spin round on one foot, the other one stamping the ground as he did so.
Kupuka’s face seemed to change each time he spun round. His voice, though, stayed the same, and he went on singing, although the sound seemed to come from a long way off. At the first turn, his face appeared to have grown feathers. The next time, he had a hare’s muzzle. A lizard’s tongue darted out from between the fangs of a wild cat as he came to a halt, sniffing the air.
Piukemán could not think. Wilkilén could not cry. They remained stock still, until a stab of pain roused them from their state of fascination. Red ants had climbed their boots and begun furiously to bite their legs. Stifling the urge to cry out, they tried desperately to brush them off, forgetting Kupuka for a brief instant.
Before they succeeded in getting rid of all the tiny creatures by now crawling all over them, they heard a sound that quickly made them straighten up. A growing cloud of white butterflies had appeared from nowhere and was fluttering between the sky and their heads. It was as if they had come into existence through a hole in the air. As though responding to an order to attack, the mass of butterflies flew at them. Hundreds and hundreds of wings beating against their faces. So many that they completely covered the clearing where Kupuka was performing his ceremony.
Piukemán and Wilkilén staggered back, waving their arms to try to get the swarm off them. They had little success, and before long they were two human shapes covered in butterflies. Their hands were smothered in them as well, and so were of no use to try to brush the rest from their faces. Blinded by the beating wings, Piukemán groped for Wilkilén, who in her efforts to fight off the attack had become separated from him. As soon as he reached her, he clutched her tightly against him. Then he ran as fast as he could . . . poor Piukemán ran and ran, still pursued by a howling wind of white wings, until he was back across the other side of the Owl Gateway.
Not a single butterfly crossed the threshold of the gate. They hung in the air on the other side, and then flew off again. As soon as Piukemán was certain they would not come back, he set Wilkilén down slowly, and sank to the ground himself to get a moment’s rest. After two or three deep breaths they were able to continue on their way. A few steps further on towards the Valley, Piukemán turned to look behind him. Between the two trees, the Owl Gateway was completely covered in an intricate spider’s web that must have taken several days to spin. Although he could not understand what had happened, Piukemán felt relieved. Perhaps they had never been on the other side.
The remainder of the walk was easy. Comforted by the fact that they were on their way back, they were not even afraid of Dulkancellin’s anger at their absence, which he must have discovered by now.
The same path took them down into the Valley. The celebration was still going on. They mingled with the crowd, heads down, ashamed to imagine that everyone already knew they had broken the rule. Before long, they bumped into their grandmother and their father. Piukemán and Wilkilén slowly raised their eyes, fearful of Dulkancellin’s flashing, angry eyes, and Kush’s sad look. But they were in for another surprise: both adults smiled at them.
‘We were looking for you. We all need to go together to greet your mother’s family,’ said Kush.
‘There’s Kuy-Kuyen,’ said Dulkancellin, pointing to her. ‘Go on ahead with her. I’ll look for Kume and Thungür.’
Piukemán and Wilkilén simply nodded their heads and did as they were told.
The celebration was coming to an end. All the families were packing up their things and saying goodbye. Under a heavy sky, the Husihuilkes set off into the icy wind rising from the sea and whistling round the forest up to the mountain peaks.
The Valley of the Ancestors was deserted until the next fine day. With only the souls of the dead to inhabit it.
4
A TRAVELLER
A man was leaving Beleram at dawn. At that time of day, the city was already busy. Some servants from the House of the Stars were raking the games court. Tardy street-sellers were carrying their goods as quickly as they could down the narrow lanes to the market. Savoury odours from the food stalls filled the air. The man stopped at one of them to buy a tortilla wrapped in leaves. It smelt particularly delicious, and only cost him a few cacao seeds. This early halt had not been part of the strict itinerary the Supreme Astronomers had set out for him, and yet how often on his journey did the memory of that taste give him the strength to go on!
He was known to many people in Beleram, and several of them greeted him as he passed by. His pack made it obvious he was setting off on a journey. In fact, he had left the House of the Stars with less than half of the treasures he had entered with: a bag full of unusual objects, as well as others he usually carried with him. The Supreme Astronomers had insisted he reduce his load, and despite showing them why each and every one would be useful to him, he had finally to resign himself to leaving behind a wealth of wonderful things. ‘Remind me to ask for them back when I return,’ he protested as he left. Although they could see he was carrying enough for a long journey, none of the people who saw him pass by bothered to ask him where he was going or why. He was always someone who came and went.
The first part of his journey was back along the way he had come a few days earlier. He crossed the market and the games court. He walked along the street leading to the market, then out past the orange groves and the outlying dwellings. ‘Farewell, Beleram!’ he said, without looking back. ‘I’ll make use of my long journey to compose a song to you!’
He crossed the bridge over the river, and went on to Centipede Yellow. From there he climbed towards the Ceremonial Mountains, which he crossed by a steep short cut. At the top, he praised the countryside around him out loud. ‘I’ve reached the most beautiful valley in the world!’ The valley was called Thirteen Times Seven Thousand Birds. ‘Perfumed like few others, and more musical than any of all the many I have heard.’ The traveller would have liked to spend several days in the valley, but knew this was impossible. Instead, he continued on his way towards the sea. One fine day he slid down the sand-dunes of the beach.
The Astronomers had ordered him to wait on the shore for the arrival of the fish-women. They came at first light, bringing with them a small boat that they left close to the shore. The traveller had no difficulty reaching it. A wind from behind blew their hair over their faces. When they left at dusk, it streamed out over their shoulders.
The craft was no different from one any Zitzahay could make out of bundles of reeds and a few secrets. Inside it was a pair of oars and a generous amount of food. The sun shone once more, and although the wind had died down, the Zitzahay prepared to set off. ‘Farewell, my Remote Realm. I shall be further away from your stars than I have ever been.’
He sailed across the Mansa Lalafke because the sea there was calm, sheltered between two shores. Crossing the sea saved him many days, because the path along the land here was very long, and grew steep where it met the foothills of the Maduinas Mountains.
From the morning when he disembarked, things changed for him. From that moment on, his journey had to become stealthy and silent so that he did not give away his secret. No one was to see a Zitzahay in this part of the continent. That was why the traveller was so thankful for the b
oat that had brought him, even though he destroyed every last trace of it.
Anybody wanting to reach the Ends of the Earth from the north had to cross the country of the Pastors of the Desert. The Astronomers had instructed him to stay close by the shore of the Lalafke. If he did that, no one would see him, because the Pastors never went near the sea. ‘Of course I did as I was told. I went where the Astronomers said I should, and, as far as I know, not a single human being laid eyes on me.’
This was what he said long afterwards, each of the many times he told his story.
He said ‘human being’ because from the moment he arrived in the Land Without Shadow an eagle circled above him. Occasionally it disappeared – once for a whole day – and yet it always returned. The man was pleased to see it back, flying high in the sky above his head. ‘It made me happy the way one feels when you see your home again in the middle of a lightning storm.’ And of course he had reason to be pleased with the bird. Travelling on one’s own through foreign lands it is easy to lose one’s way, mistake a landmark, become disoriented on the plains or to go wrong at a crossroads. Whenever that happened, the bird swooped down with a loud screech. Then it flew back and forth between the bewildered traveller and the right path, showing him the right way to go. In addition, the eagle often carried fleshy leaves in its beak that were filled with a comforting juice. These helped augment the traveller’s scarce supply of water, which he could only replenish in the rare oases he came across near the coast.
So they travelled together for countless days. ‘She in the sky, me in the sands; never the other way round.’
The desert seemed endless. Days of scorching heat; icy nights. Days and nights, nights and days, the landscape always the same. Every so often, the figure on his own in the desert threw a pebble in front of him just to convince himself he was advancing. ‘You’ve caught up with the pebble you threw. Calm down, you are moving. And with any luck, you’re moving in the right direction,’ he told himself in consolation.
The Days of the Deer Page 3