by Clare Bell
She closed her eyes, trying to get a mental picture of what the shaman might be holding, but no one had ever proved ESP to her satisfaction. Even if it existed, she certainly didn’t have the talent. Her mind remained blank
In her frustration she began to breathe deeply, opening her mouth and taking air across her tongue. Without much hope, she began to explore the odors in the kiva. She smelled clay, dust, dried wood, the musty aroma of old blankets such as the one she sat on. Nothing there hinted at what the shaman might be holding.
Underneath the earthy kiva-smell, Kesbe caught a hint of something else. She stilled her breathing, wondering if it might be a trick of her mind or her nose. It seemed to fade. Slowly she exhaled, then took in another lungful. Yes, there was another scent underlying that of dust and clay. It hinted of freshness, crispness, sweetness…
But Sahacat would want more than a vague description, she thought. She almost lost the scent again due to its faintness, but it left a surprisingly strong reverberation in her mind, telling her that, yes, she did know this smell, but from where and when…
A memory entered into her mind. Hands moving over a shiny metal bowl. Her mother’s hands. Brown and slender. Peeling something. Long, green, tasselled and smelling wonderful. For a moment she was back in childhood, standing on a kitchen stool as her mother shucked sweet corn from the first harvest…
This wasn’t exactly the same smell, yet close enough to wake memories. She knew what Sahacat was holding.
“You have an ear of fresh corn,” she said.
“The smallest and most perfect of this season’s harvest. I have the Corn Mother between my hands,” Sahacat answered. “It is by tewalukwi that you have discovered her.”
For a moment Kesbe felt confused. Was this tewalutewi simply the crude old human sense of smell? She felt vaguely disappointed. Then another thought occurred to her. Not the sense of smell as she and her people outside the Barranca knew it, but the olfactory sense as the Pai and their aronans knew it. Her word “smell” was a clumsy and inaccurate way of describing this way of perceiving the world. No wonder she had chosen the crude Pai word, tototkvi. She suspected she only had begun to understand the total meaning of tewalutewi. The teaching continued.
Three days passed and she was once again in the upper room of the kiva. Sahacat sat across from her, curtained away by darkness.
“What do I hold?” the shaman asked.
Kesbe closed her eyes and inhaled. “Water.”
“What is the water contained within?”
“A gourd.”
“Good.” The shaman paused. “How much water is in the gourd?”
Kesbe’s mouth opened in dismay. By working hard these past few days she had managed to reach a point where she could determine by smell almost anything Sahacat picked up. At first the shaman’s body-smell obscured some of the faint odors she was trying to detect, but she trained herself to mask it out.
But this demand seemed impossible. She might be able to tell what was there but as to how much…no, the sense of smell could give no quantifiable information.
“How much water is in the gourd?” Sahacat prodded again.
She closed her eyes, letting the faint pumpkin odor of water in a gourd dominate her perception. She divided the smell into two, the water and the container. Perhaps by judging the relative strengths of the two, container versus contents, she might be able to tell. It was too vague, too fuzzy she wasn’t sure.
“The gourd is full,” she tried.
“You are guessing,” replied the shaman. “Use what you have learned and build on it.”
All right. Did water smell different when there were large amounts of it? Well, a lake had a very different odor than a cup of water, even when the water was scooped from the same lake. She thought about this. When a bottle or flask was only partially full, the inside would develop a layer of vapor atop the liquid and that vapor, mixed with air, had a characteristic scent different than the liquid itself.
“I think there is barely enough water to cover the bottom of the gourd,” she said at last.
In answer, she heard the hollow slap of liquid against the walls of its container as Sahacat shook it, telling her she was right.
“So,” said the shaman. “You begin to learn the power of tewalutewi.”
She interrupted the teaching to hand Kesbe a smaller vessel that contained another liquid. This stuff was viscous, with a disagreeable musty stink. She made a face, glad that darkness hid her expression from her teacher.
“I don’t know what this is.”
“You do not have to know. Drink all of it.”
She rolled the narrow earthenware flask between her fingers. Her throat closed at the idea of attempting to quaff whatever lay inside. It smelled like stale earwax, perhaps worse.
“Do you mind if I look at this in the light?” she said.
“We are not training your sense of vision,” said Sahacat with a touch of dry humor. “This is the drink given to candidates for initiation. It is an essential part of their learning.”
She pinched her nose and put the flask to her lips. Vague recollections of the use of ritual purgatives by ancient peoples made her hesitate. If it made her vomit, that would be something she’d have to accept. It couldn’t be too bad if children drank it.
She took a deep breath and upended the flask, throwing its contents onto the back of her tongue. It tasted even more vile than it smelled and she nearly choked in her efforts to get it down quickly. She washed her mouth with saliva trying to get rid of the chalky residue and the waxy aftertaste.
Sahacat evidently took pity on her, for she felt a full water-gourd being placed in the palm of her hand. She drank gratefully, then waited for the first sign of impending rebellion from her insides. She felt nothing beyond a faint warmth in her stomach, as if she had drunk hot coffee.
“What does it do?” she asked.
“In the beginning, nothing. Later, you will learn,” said the shaman. Kesbe heard Sahacat’s fingernails click on the neck of another gourd. “What is in this vessel and how much is present?” she asked.
She closed her eyed and drew her breath slowly through her nose.
Kesbe learned to count the days not in weeks but as sukops, which were sixteen day periods. One sukop had already passed, with her spending many of her waking hours sitting in the upper chamber of the kiva with Sahacat. Each day she was given a flask of the chalky fluid, which she gulped down as quickly as possible Gradually she became more tolerant of the taste, which was fortunate, because each day she was given more. The shaman had said it would do nothing, but it seemed to intensify her awakening sense of scent.
It was indeed tewalutewi, the knowing sense. She found that not only could she detect the character of something and the amount from a distance, she could also get glimmerings of an object’s dimension. Hidden in the dimness, Sahacat held a pottery jar. She told Kesbe that she had rubbed different herbal perfumes on the top, bottom and sides of the vessel.
“Is it large or small?” the shaman asked.
Kesbe’s eyes were already closed, since she had no use for sight here. She inhaled slowly, turning her head in rapid arcs to detect different gradations in the strength of the odors diffusing to her from the object. An image formed in her mind. It was crude and consisted only of blotches of odor dimensionally spaced from each other, but from it she could gather basic positional information.
“Large.”
Sahacat told her she was correct. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Every once in a while she would get a sharp tingle high in her nasal cavity, as if she were going to sneeze. She wondered if this had anything to do with her growing acuteness of smell.
“How large?”
This was harder. She tried to refine the olfactory image, give it reference and dimension. To do so, she had to interpret the picture in her mind that was being made by her nose. The only way to do it was via the language of sight. She thought of the odorous blotches as being clouds of
luminous gas suspended in space before her. Mentally she measured the distance between them, comparing it to her own human dimensions for reference.
“Long as an arm from shoulder to elbow,” she answered.
Again, she surprised herself by being correct.
Tall or squat?”
She clenched her teeth. Each time was a new hurdle. All right. Now there were four odorous blotches glowing in her mental picture. She could almost see the outline of the object they delineated.
“Squat,” she answered.
Sahacat didn’t stop there. She changed the position of the jar in her hands and asked Kesbe for it. The shaman took up new jars without telling her. Sahacat challenged and stretched her growing capability until she imagined that her nose was aching from the strain, just as her eyes would. She had to stop to rub the annoying prickle high in her nostrils. Her stomach was warmed by the drink and the warmth seemed to stay for a long time, making her feel relaxed.
The teaching continued.
Not all of Kesbe’s education took place in Aronan Kiva with Sahacat. Although achieving mastery of tewalutewi would allow her to understand and communicate with Baqui Iba, there were also practical aspects to the partnership, such as mastering the skill of riding a flier. Since Sahacat did not teach this, another instructor was chosen: the child-warrior Pesquit.
On the first morning of aronan flight-school, Pesquit gave her a broad smile and led the way up the mesa trail. Kesbe followed, with Baqui Iba. When they reached the top, Pesquit said, “I will show you the first thing I learned about aronans. Hai, Baqui Iba, come to me and open your wings.” Her small hands flickered in a series of hand-signs in front of the flier.
Baqui Iba obeyed, lifting its wings slightly so that Pesquit could duck beneath. She crooked a finger at Kesbe, who crouched underneath with her. The wings were translucent amber, their jet-black veining and patterned hues making her feel as if she were beneath a stained-glass window. The colors played across Pesquit’s face as she indicated a leathery disk on the flier’s side below the base of its wingspar.
The structure looked like a raised drumhead set into the mat of bristles covering the aronan’s thorax. Pesquit clucked once to Baqui Iba, then clapped her hands softly near the tympanum. Kesbe touched her ear the girl nodded. First lesson. Baqui Iba wears its ears on its body.
Kesbe reached out to feel the tympanum, but Pesquit’s hand deflected hers. The child-warrior’s lowered brows made the message clear—no touching! She then had Kesbe sit on the aronan and showed her how to keep her feet well forward with heels away from the tympanum. Pesquit emphasized this point—you must never kick your mount in the eardrums.
Kesbe studied the position critically. Her heels would have to stray pretty far to cause a problem. Nevertheless, she resolved to be careful. She thought then that Pesquit would let her fly, but she didn’t. Instead Pesquit had her dismount and showed her some of Baqui Iba’s other features.
By gently manipulating one of the aronan’s forelegs, Pesquit showed her how the limb folded up against the body for flight. The claw on the tarsal limb segment bore spines on its underside that hooked neatly into a recess on the creature’s “elbow.” Both front and hind limbs worked the same way. Once Baqui Iba retracted its “landing gear,” the legs would stay locked in place without any effort. She wondered if this biological aircraft, like its mechanical cousins, ever got its landing gear stuck in the “up” position.
Apparently it did, for Pesquit showed her a small comb fashioned to clean the locking spines. If they accumulated too much debris, she explained, a leg could indeed get stuck. Keeping the spines and recesses clean was evidently an important part of Baqui Iba’s care. Pesquit emphasized this by insisting that Kesbe learn how to manipulate the spine-comb before learning anything else.
Kesbe guessed that aronans in the wild also got their legs stuck once in a while, but the problem wasn’t as critical since they didn’t have to land with the additional weight of a rider. Baqui Iba might have a problem coming in on only three points, especially with herself aboard, she thought. She resolved to be diligent with the spine-comb.
A little stiff in the knees, she stood up, hoping that the girl would now let her fly. No. She had more to learn. Baqui Iba’s wings, for instance. She had thought that they were a single large pair and gasped in dismay when Pesquit made a hand-sign that made the wings seem to tear lengthwise with an audible ripping sound.
Once she was reassured that the aronan had nqt deliberately mutilated itself, she looked more closely and saw that each wing was made up of a separate fore-and hind-wing, each with its own spar. Baqui Iba’s forewing was long and tapered while the hindwing was rounded and stubby. Matching arrays of tiny barbs mated to lock both wings together or separated to allow each beat independently.
Kesbe didn’t get airborne that day or the next. Her fantasy that flying the aronan would not demand the disciplined concentration necessary to pilot an aircraft crumbled in the reality of learning about the creature. There was so much to know, she thought she’d never get all of it. Unlike the old airplanes she resurrected, Baqui Iba didn’t come with an instruction manual. And she couldn’t talk to the aronan…yet.
No days pass for me. I dream through long nights. I lie cradled in darkness, feeling my body begin to change under the influence of the drink from the Kiva of the Brooding One. There are interruptions, but they seem vague, shadowy, not real. I am truly awake only when Sahacat comes and is alone with me, chanting her shaman’s magic in my ears or filling my belly with the strange liquid.
She speaks to me, telling me things that I must know as a Pai adult. I repeat them after her, but somehow they slip from my mind. I grimace with frustration. She soothes me, stroking my forehead. It does not matter, she says. It does not matter now.
I know that Chamol and Nabamida often kneel by my bedside. Perhaps also the woman Kesbe. They all seem as insubstantial as ghosts and my tongue will not move for them, nor will my eyes fix upon them. Sahacat tells me that they think I am still sick as a result of the blow to my head.
My skin becomes so sensitive that I can no longer lie on the pallet of pine boughs and I am moved to a bed of blankets. I feel a strange heat blooming in my belly in the place below my navel. When I stroke my face, the beard-hairs I was beginning to grow fall out.
At each of Sahacat’s visits, the drink she gives me grows less repulsive to my tongue. Now I swallow it eagerly for it keeps away the bad dreams. Sahacat does other things when she tends me. She moves my legs and arms, to keep them from becoming stiff and losing strength.
She lays her hands on the warm place in my belly and says I will soon be ready to be moved to the Kiva of the Brooding One.
Chapter 16
You have learned to perceive with tewalutewi,” said Sahacat, as Kesbe began her sixth sukop in the kiva. In acknowledgment of her progress, Sahacat had moved her down to a chamber further underground in the kiva. It was colder here and darker. She wished she had a blanket to draw around her bare shoulders as the shaman continued. “That is only part of what you must know. You must also learn to answer with tewalutewi”
What that meant, when the Pai concept had been translated into the language in which Kesbe thought best, was that she must use her own odor-making capacity to send information. She had even less idea of how to do that than she did when she was first asked to judge shape and dimension through her olfactory sense.
Sahacat told her to stand up and take off the short kilt she wore. She sensed the other woman approaching her. Somehow the embryonic beginnings of respect and empathy generated by the previous encounters vanished. Again she was wary of the other woman, even fearful. All the hairs on the back of her neck rose like the nape of a threatened animal.
“Lift your arms and stand with your legs apart,” the shaman said, her voice soft and husky. Her own smell was strong, mixed with the leather and grease scent of the robes she wore.
Kesbe shifted uneasily, hating the feeling of standin
g naked in blackness with the shaman-woman circling her like a hunter coming in on prey. What was all this for? she wondered, but could not ask. She felt something brush her upper arm. She flinched away. It was not the shaman’s hand that had touched her, but the woman’s nose! She was moving around Kesbe, smelling her closely like a dog on two legs.
Kesbe had to suppress a strong urge to lash out and catch Sahacat across the face with one elbow. She tried to analyze her feelings. What was so uncomfortable about this? It wasn’t just the dank coldness of the underground chamber. It was the utter vulnerability, the fact she was standing here with her breasts and crotch unguarded. She half-feared that something was going to spring wolf-like out of the shadows and penetrate her.
No, the only wolf-like thing was Sahacat, still sniffing dementedly around her body. Was this crazy witch supposed to be her teacher? She is a healer, Kesbe kept reminding herself, thinking of how Sahacat had cured the wuwuchpi’s bite on her knee. She is a healer.
Kesbe felt a current of air across her front as the shaman moved past her. Then a hand picked up her own and smeared something greasy across the back of it. She flinched.
“I will put different scented ointments on your body. It will assist you in performing the first tasks I set for you.”
Again in darkness, the shaman moved around her, wiping the ointments onto her skin with quick strokes. When that was done, she told Kesbe to sit, and retreated from her.
“Now you will do the opposite of what you did before,” said Sahacat. “I will tell you what messages to send me.”
She explained that the ointments were volatile. Raising or lowering the temperature of the skin in certain areas would produce a different mix of smells. This was a very crude way to begin, since the ultimate goal was to have control over the composition and mix of natural human body scents in order to speak a “language” of olfaction. This more sophisticated control would involve far more than just changes in skin temperature, but mastery of that in the first step.