by Clare Bell
The sight of it woke memories of trips with her mother to places with strange names such as Keet Seel, Betatakin and Chaco. There she had seen only time-worn ruins. Here it was as if the ancient Anasazi cliff-dwellings had once again sprung to life, for smoke rose from the chimney vents. People gathered in the plaza and peered down from the flat rooftops as the little procession approached.
The aronans carrying her sling were also greeted by the chirrs and chirps of their kind. Lifting her head to peer over the edge of the woven net, she saw many other fliers being walked, ridden or tended by Pai children. The flash of iridescent wings brought startling color to the drab scene of sandstone and adobe, but the sight of water-jars lashed to the fliers’ backs, nets of herbs and roots hung on their sides and fresh-killed game draped across their necks told Kesbe that aronans brought more than beauty to Tuwayhoima.
Her struggles to hike in the Barranca had already convinced her that people could not live here if they had only their feet for transport. They would be trapped, unable to range the area for food, water or other things vital to survival. A flier was the ideal mount in a landscape more vertical than horizontal. More than ideal: essential. Kesbe sensed that Tuwayhoima owed its existence as much to aronans as to people. She wondered how the fliers had been tamed.
There was a tangible spirit to the village that reached out to claim her. She sniffed the earth-and-water smell of potter’s clay, the odor of corn parching. She heard echoes bounce off the roof of the cave, muffled by the porous sandstone and adobe of the buildings. In the plaza through which she was carried, she saw the ends of lashed-pole ladders poking from entrance holes and heard the muted chanting of men in a kiva below the village square. And then, before she had time to absorb all of it, the women bore her into a building with an odd block-T shaped doorway.
In the womb-like dark and warmth of the pueblo room, they laid her down on a pallet of fragrant springy boughs. The scent, combined with her exhaustion, soon coaxed her into sleep.
Chapter 6
Kesbe awoke, startled by a chirping noise and a high childish giggle. For a moment her head swam, then she hitched herself up on her elbows, remembering where she was. Enough light came from the earthenware lamp on the plank shelf above her bed to show the two small creatures that had invaded her room. One was easy to identify—a two-year-old naked butterball of a little boy who choked on his giggles as soon as Kesbe returned his stare. He threw his arms protectively about the other, who was harder to identify. It looked like a miniature, chunkier version of Haewi Namij, with a proportionately larger head, shorter legs and no wings.
The encounter with Kesbe promptly undid the equanimity of the toddler, who lost his balance and plopped down on his bottom, dragging his companion with him.
“Jolo!” The husky adolescent voice was Imiya’s. He stepped through the high threshold of the doorway and swooped like a benevolent predator upon the child. After him came a young woman whose kind eyes didn’t quite match her high-boned regal face. Instead of the traditional bound hair-bundle worn by married Pueblo women, her hair was woven up into elaborate wings on each side of her head. Kesbe marked that as another difference, possibly significant, possibly not. The woman took Jolo from Imiya, softly chiding the little boy.
“My sister, Chamol,” Imiya said as the young woman turned to Kesbe. She expected to see the usual expression most people used when acknowledging an introduction, but Chamois face startled her. The Pai Yinaye woman’s expression might have been an open-mouthed smile, except that the corners of the mouth were drawn back, not up. Again the teeth were bared and again Kesbe heard a soft hissing as Chamol sucked air between her tongue and the roof of her mouth.
It was the same odd grimace she had seen Imiya and the child-warriors use when they first encountered her. It reminded her of the expression of a cat or dog smelling the scents left by others of their kind. The distortion of a gentle human face in that manner made her flinch.
Chamol had evidently seen her reaction. The woman tipped her head to one side while her face relaxed into the more familiar lines of puzzlement and concern.
“Have I done something to frighten you?” she asked in a low voice.
“Your face changed. “Kesbe stammered in the Pai tongue, not knowing how to explain her discomfort.
“Changed? How?” The woman was puzzled.
“Like this “Kesbe tried to mimic what she had seen, hoping that she would not exaggerate the expression.
Chamol did not take offense. “It is the face of tewalutewi, the knowing sense,” she answered.
Kesbe realized that she must have looked completely blank, for Chamol added, “Imiya told me that you do not use it. I did not believe him. How strange, for otherwise you are very much like us. But that does not matter,” she continued, with an open smile, full of welcome. “I am honored to have you as a guest in my house. Imiya told me the story of the wuwuchpi.”
Kesbe hitched herself a little higher on her elbows. At the same time, her stomach growled audibly. “You are better,” said Chamol, shifting her grip on the squirming toddler. “I must apologize for my children disturbing you. I will bring you food.” She took Jolo out of the room. Imiya scooped up Jolo’s pet, holding it with arms around breast and rump as a Terran would carry a mid-size dog. It turned large compound eyes on Kesbe and waggled its short antennae plumes as the youth bore it away.
She settled back down on her pallet, recovering from the swirl of domestic activity that had briefly enveloped her. Smells wafting through the doorway promised a good meal. She felt no hesitancy over eating what Chamol had prepared, for it smelled cooked and she had already partaken of Imiya’s catches to extend her own provisions. Eating hot meals native-style had so far proved safe.
She felt the tickle of thirst in her throat and rolled her head sideways, looking for her makeshift pack and canteen. She saw neither and wondered with alarm if they had been lost or overlooked. She wanted the pack, especially, for it held two items that had become essential to her survival in this primitive place—water purification tablets and the anachronistic oddity known as “toilet paper.”
Kesbe could not help grinning at the memory of how she had requisitioned that particular item from Canaback’s supply store. Since even the older type of sanitary facilities no longer required tissue, having replaced the cleansing function with a quick spray and blow-dry, Canaback’s quartermaster didn’t stock it and indeed had no idea of what she was asking for. In the end, she had to prepare what amounted to an engineering specification complete with drawings and pay to have the material fabricated. And it still didn’t quite fit the dispenser slot in Gooney Berg’s antiquated aft latrine.
Her grin faded. This wasn’t going to be funny if she didn’t have that particular necessity, primitive as it was. And if she didn’t have the water purification tablets she’d been using to make the native water potable, she might have an intestinal upset that would make the need more urgent.
She swore to herself, sat up and called Chamol. The woman appeared, her brows lifted in questioning. Kesbe asked about her pack and canteen.
“Your carrying-bundle was brought by the child-warriors,” Chamol said, “but I do not understand what this “kan-teen” is that you ask for.”
“It holds my drinking water,” Kesbe explained.
“You are thirsty? I will bring you a gourd.” Chamol started to leave the chamber when Kesbe called after her, asking her to bring the pack as well. When Chamol returned with a vessel of water and the pack slung by its straps over one arm, Kesbe took it eagerly and pawed in a side pocket for the snap-tin of water purification tablets, seizing the battered container with a sigh of relief. Then, while Chamol watched, she dropped in one minute pill, shook the gourd and set it aside.
“Is this medicine?”
“In a way. It keeps me from getting sick if I drink the water here.”
Chamol seemed startled at the idea. “Our water comes from springs. Why should it make you sick? Unless the w
ater of earth is not pure enough for a spirit of the sky. If that is true, then we must apologize.”
“Uh…no,” Kesbe said, feeling she was in over her head. Honesty made her want to disavow any claim to divinity she might have in the eyes of the Pai Yinaye, but that might also be a tactical error.
She turned her attention to the gourd, but couldn’t help noticing that the faint chemical odor drifting from the mouth of the container bothered the Pai woman. As Kesbe drank from the treated vessel, she caught a glimpse of Chamois nostrils flaring and then again the odd animal grimace, accompanied afterward with a fleeting expression of puzzlement.
“I will bring you food,” she said again. “If you can eat it.”
Kesbe was quick to reassure the Pai woman on that point and her hungry stomach added a few loud growls. Though she did notice that Chamois renewed smile did not entirely hide her bafflement as she made a hasty withdrawal from the room.
Kesbe looked into the gourd, sniffed it and then found something to plug the top, since the scent seemed unpleasant to the Pai. It was an odd reversal of roles, usually it was the strong odor of Indian villages that bothered outsiders. She sighed. Well, this particular problem would solve itself when she ran out of tablets. If this turned out to be a long stay, she’d have to acclimatize herself to the resident micro-organisms by using less and less of the purificant.
As she relaxed, something Chamol had said began to bother her. She had said she was sorry that her children had disturbed their guest. But Jolo appeared to be her only one, at least the only one who had participated in the small invasion. Imiya was clearly Chamois younger brother, not her son. Kesbe gave up wondering about it as Chamol re-entered the room with a steaming bowl. Perhaps she was still making mistakes in her interpretation of the Pai language.
I wonder if Tony Mabena knows anything about these people. Thinking of Tony made her uncomfortable. She was now several days overdue at his installation. He would either be furious or worried. She guessed he had probably contacted Canaback and reported her missing. Well, if he knew she’d gone down in a thunderstorm over the Barranca, he couldn’t be too angry at her for not delivering the aircraft. Still, she wished there was some way to notify him that both she and Gooney were safe.
Was it possible that these Indians, despite the outwardly primitive appearance of their culture, might have some way to communicate with the outside world? As Chamol set the bowl before her, she asked if there was a way to send messages from Tuwayhoima.
“The child-warriors can take your words from Tuwayhoima to an outlying village,” said Chamol, looking slightly puzzled by her visitor’s request. When Kesbe explained that she wanted to reach someone beyond the Barranca, Chamol shook her head.
“You speak of sending messages beyond the world. The Mother Canyon is the world we know. Only kachinas and the spirits of the dead may go beyond.”
So, Kesbe thought. Not only did the Pai Yinaye have no way of contacting the outside world, they did not even believe it existed. Tony would have to wait until she finally arrived to hear her explanation. She was stuck here until her leg healed sufficiently to allow her to extricate herself from her own predicament.
It struck her that the Pai had totally regressed from the technology that had brought their ancestors to Oneway. It made sense. The Indians who left Earth were paying passengers who attempted to keep themselves uncontaminated by the technology that brought them. But it was hard to believe that settlers on a new and alien world would reject the technological aids that might have helped them to survive.
She wondered if such a path had been entirely their choice or had been forced upon them by unexpected hardship. She remembered the legend Imiya had told her about the creation of Aronan by the Blue Star Kachina. It couldn’t be historically accurate, but it might contain some scraps of truth.
She took up the flat wooden spatula that Chamol had laid beside the bowl of cornmeal porridge and scooped some into her mouth. She was surprised to find how fast hunger drove all other concerns from her mind.
When Chamol returned to take the empty bowl, she announced that they were to have another visitor. A healer named Sahacat would call to examine Kesbe’s injury.
“It is an honor,” Chamol said, her excitement betraying that she was still young despite her role as a mother. “Sahacat is the most powerful healer in the village. She is allowed to teach initiates in the kivas, for she is also a shaman of great ability.”
Kesbe lay back, feeling the cornmeal porridge warm her stomach. From the little she knew of her own lost tribal tradition, women had little or no role as priests or shamans. They were forbidden to enter the sacred underground chambers where the men chanted and held ceremonials. This made her very curious about Sahacat.
She must be very old and wise, Kesbe thought, picturing a wizened crone with dark parchment skin and a face creased by age. The quick sure step of the healer as Chamol showed the woman in made Kesbe revise her age estimate.
Sahacat ducked into the room in a rustle of heavy black robes and a rattle of beads. Kesbe sat up, noticing that on the thong about the woman’s neck were dried and lacquered tails from a scorpion-like creature native to Oneway. Each tail still bore its stinger.
The healer was so tall she had to stoop in the tiny pueblo room. Her hair was not bound in braids or woven in the winged headdress but flung back in a wild tangle from her brow. She was neither old nor young and there was a spareness about her that suggested that all superfluous things had been seared away by some fierce fire of the spirit.
“So you are the warrior who fought Hotopa Wuwuchpi.” Sahacat’s voice had a rusty undertone. A strong woman-smell swirled about her as she bent and undid the bindings about the wounded knee.
The planes of her face were thrust forward more than was usual for a Pueblo woman. Her nose, instead of being flattened, had a proud arch. Her forehead slanted back to her hairline, suggesting that somewhere in her ancestry there had been an infusion of classical Mayan blood into the stolid Pueblo line. Her cheekbones were wide and high, her eyes long with raised corners. The facial symmetry was marred by an undershot lower jaw and protruding lower lip. It was a face that could be seen either as exotically ugly or beautiful. It was also an ageless face and Kesbe realized she had no idea how old this woman might be.
Sahacat gave a quick sniff over the punctures made by the creature’s spiked claw
“It smells fresh. It has been well dressed, but the spikes of wuwuchpi can sink to the bone, leaving wounds that fester,” she said to Chamol. “It is well the elders sent me to attend. Bring me a small earthenware vessel and keep anyone else from entering this chamber.”
Kesbe found her voice. “What are you going to do?” she managed to say, drawing the shaman’s indirect though intense stare once again.
“I will prevent you from being crippled. I will not use the knife,” Sahacat answered. “Is that what you fear?”
Kesbe’s jaw dropped. If that was meant to be reassuring…With brisk movements, the shaman brought a small woven bag from beneath her robes and turned to Chamol who had appeared in the doorway, holding out a shallow clay bowl. From behind Sahacat’s robes, Kesbe saw Chamol blanch as the shaman shook something from her bag into the bowl.
“Go now.” Sahacat shooed Chamol away as if she were a small child. She carried the bowl into a corner of the room. As Kesbe watched, she bared the back of her dark wrist and plunged it into the vessel. She stiffened, as if stung.
Kesbe’s heart began to race. What kind of witch-doctoring was this? If the wound was serious, she should be in some sort of medical facility, not a dingy cell with a half-mad tribal healer. She tried to cry out for Chamol, but all that emerged was a strangled squeak.
“You doubt my skill in my calling?” Sahacat said softly over her shoulder. “I have healed many whose limbs would otherwise have shriveled from the bite of the wwvuchpi and its kin. If you are frightened, close your eyes. The worst pain is in your mind.”
Instinct told
Kesbe the shaman was neither boasting nor lying. She heard the soft rustle and click of scorpion tails as Sahacat turned around. She lay rigidly and shut her eyes. I never was very good at getting shots, either, she thought.
She braced herself for agony, but felt only the dry touch of hands on her throbbing knee. Sahacat’s touch seemed to grow warmer, with a pervasive heat that enveloped the pain and withdrew it. The hands burned and tingled against Kesbe’s skin while Sahacat drew her breath in deep sighs.
Curious now rather than afraid, Kesbe cracked open one eyelid at the pair of brown hands encircling her leg. On the back of each one, perched as though it were some exotic decoration, was a tiny scorpion. Kesbe almost jumped off her pallet.
Trembling, she held still, unable to take her eyes off the two scorpions. She noticed that each had a double tail and each pair of tails was arched forward over the arachnid’s head, its stinger buried in the back of Sahacat’s hand. The healer’s touch now felt like fire-heated brick. At the point where Kesbe could barely stand it, Sahacat released her.
“There are two points where the spikes have pierced bone,” she said throatily. “I will pack the wounds with a special herb.” Kesbe nodded and closed her eyes again, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. Her knee was entirely numb, she felt only pressure as the healer worked.
She expected Sahacat to instruct her on the care of the wound and how long it would take to heal, but instead the shaman plucked the twin-tailed scorpions from her hands, dropped them back in their bag and said, “You wished to ride Haewi Namij during your journey with Imiya. Is that true?”
Kesbe blinked. The question was abrupt and had nothing to do with anything else that had happened between her and the healer. Then she wondered how Sahacat had known, for she hadn’t actually asked Imiya to let her ride.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, too dazed to deny it.
“And it is still your desire to ride an aronan.” It was a statement, not a question.