I had shown my writing talent early, while I was still in high school. I won prizes. My talent was combined with a flair for taking tests: that quick, superficial ability to outguess the pedantry of mechanized stupidity, that passes for intelligence. It got me scholarships to good colleges. Of course, I edited the school paper and the literary magazine and I published my own poetry before graduation.
Even so, I easily saw that, regardless of my talents, degrees without contacts would get me nothing but the starvation of a serious writer or the dull security of teaching.
I got a job in a quiet, exclusive girls’ college where I could write more poetry, spill a few words of wisdom to the panting adolescents and rise in the respect of my literary colleagues while I waited to meet the rich young student I would marry. The young things fell into my bed like cut grass. I could have chosen among three or four that first year; they were all so eager to break their parents’ hearts by marrying a defiant, arrogant academic opportunist. I chose the most staunchly rebellious one and we eloped.
Now I could live without working, pretending to write poetry while looking down my nose at her family, who hastened to support us. But the money was not enough, a small gain, really, for a man with an appetite like mine.
I wanted something … something I couldn’t define. Something like the first thrill that comes with a first winning—a first publication of your work, a first good job, a first good lay, a first … all the orgasms of life, that while you’re having them make you think, “this is it … this is the great thing, now that I’ve got this, I’ve made it.” But almost before you’ve finished saying it, you’re on your way down, the thrill is waning, the orgasm is over and you can’t reach it quite that way again. But you keep trying to duplicate it, you try all the variations, to get there, before you exhaust that way and begin to try some other. That was what my life was really all about; the lower I sank, the higher I was trying to reach, trying to live life on that orgasmic plane, clutching and trying to hang on, falling and trying to get back.
The world is full of ways to try to reach it. Drugs and drink and sex and fame and things … plenty of things. You can spend years, from your first shiny tricycle to your last taste of power, and take a long, long time before you know finally, fully, before you realize that you always come down, no matter how high you’ve been; that it’s a law of gravity of the soul.
That’s when a lot of people commit suicide, when they stop believing it’s possible to live really alive, when their own weight becomes too much for them.
But I was a long way from that, or thought I was. I lived off my wife’s money while I concocted a novel of obscene urbanity: a spy story with a ruthless, indestructible hero and equal parts of sex and violence. Among my father-in-law’s contacts was a publisher who owed him a favor. (The university presses which had published my poetry wouldn’t touch it, of course.)
I hit it just right. Some people read it for the sex, some for the violence, some because others were reading it. It crossed all intellectual lines, the low brows identifying with the hero, the high-brows pretending they found it all very funny. When the book hit the top of the best seller lists, I left my wife.
I turned out four more of them, released them one a year, signed film contracts, and at thirty was rich and famous. I even looked like the hero of the books, lean and hard, for in the effort I’d increasingly lost weight and had what Connie and the others, all those others, called a hungry look. There was even some talk of using me to act the role for the movies. I’d already done some introductions for a TV mystery series and any number of frustrated people had adopted my face as the face of their fantasy identity or fantasy lover.
It was all fine, except for the nightmares. And the nightmares were, perhaps, the only real thing in my life.
I knew all the rest was phony. I knew my popularity would wane, but not before I’d made a lot of money and would then be able to … able to what? I hadn’t thought of the next stage, the next orgasm, yet. But I was coming down.
The nightmares were more frequent. And women—women like Connie—sometimes became absolutely savage, as though being with me turned them into some kind of screeching witches.
But I was a success, I told myself. I was what all men wanted to be, God help them.
I hardly left the tent that day, not even to stand in the opening. I rehearsed my story. I had decided to try the trip story: I’d gone away for a rest, telling Connie she could use the house while I was gone. I’d had an accident. As soon as I was able I’d gone back to town. I hadn’t seen a newspaper, so I had no way of knowing what had happened. No, I had no idea who could have done it. Of course, Connie was a woman who got around—there were any number of men, perhaps a jealous lover or ex-husband … she had two of them.
As I paced round and round the tent with only a slight limp, the story sounded more and more plausible. After all, if I couldn’t dream up a good story, who could?
The sky was turning a deep gold, and I heard footsteps. I went to the opening, pulled back the mat, and stepped outside. The people were coming down the path in their daily sunset procession. Today they seemed to be livelier than usual. Some of the younger ones were holding hands and moving in a kind of skipping, hopping dance along the path. One of them missed a step, and the others laughed and embraced him. Then he laughed, and they stretched out their arms, held hands and moved forward again. As they passed by me, they pointed to my leg, gave a high kick, a laugh, and skipped onward.
As other people passed by they gave me a similar greeting or congratulations on being on my feet. From some the greeting was a simple nod, from others, like the bushy-haired giant, it was a robust shake of his clasped hands, like the gesture of a winning prize fighter (followed by an ironic bleat from his trailing lamb). I felt like an important dignitary before whom all the people were passing in review.
As they passed some picked up sea shells which sat on top of the wall. I learned later that these were used for eating and drinking. Afterwards they were returned to the stone walls where the sun bleached them clean and where they caught rain water and were available for a drink or a wash.
When the black woman, the bald man, the cat woman and goldy-locks came by they stopped and stood beside me. They seemed to be waiting for everyone else to go. When the path had been empty for a few moments, goldy-locks took my hand and drew me away from the doorway to the center of the path. He put my hand on his shoulder. The black woman came alongside and put my other hand on her shoulder. A green butterfly took off from her shoulder and lit on her ear. The old man and woman went ahead.
We walked in silence for a few steps. Then the woman ahead started chanting. Her white cat eyed me steadily over her shoulder. We walked slowly as if to let me test my leg and lean for support. But there was no problem. Except for a slight weakness the leg was all right.
The path curved. It seemed to curve always to the left. We were walking in a circle, a continuously narrowing circle. Along the path were other tents like the one I’d been in. And I could see our destination, in the center of the narrowing circles marked by the low stone walls.
It was a huge pointed tent, like an Indian tent, built up on a slight rise. This tent was uncovered. The great logs of trees pointed upward and came together in the center but there was little covering, no matted roof.
We came around one more turn and the low stone wall ended at a wide, clear pool with stones lining its edges. The old man and woman went to the edge of the pool, scooped up water in their hands, and washed their hands and faces, taking care to spill the water over the plants growing round the pool, not actually washing themselves in the pool. After washing they scooped a few drops of clear water into their hands and carried it forward. The three of us followed their example.
Beyond the pool the path now led up the rise toward the huge, skeletal tent. As we climbed upward I leaned more heavily on the boy and the woman. The old man and woman went on ahead, both of them chanting, as though they had forg
otten us.
I stumbled over something and looked down. It was a tree root. The black woman sprinkled her little handful of water over the exposed root. The others were doing the same, sprinkling their few drops of water on the exposed roots or the ground around a great old tree that now stood before us.
I had never seen a tree like it. Its roots had spread out for yards beyond the path, and its trunk filled the path, which was at least eight feet wide. Its bark was nearly black and deeply rutted and gnarled. Starting from a height of above five feet, branches twisted outward like a roof, then curved upward. The leaves were broad and thick, a dark bluish-green with red veins running through them.
We had to duck under and go around the tree. It was quite dark under the thick branches. We climbed carefully over the roots, until we reached the other side, the entrance to the tent.
I stopped short and looked down. The mound on which the tent was built had been hollowed out and steps cut into the side, like a broad, shallow, inverted cone going down into the earth to a central point which glowed with a red flame. Seated on the steps along the sides of the cone were the entire population and a sizable number of animals. They were in complete silence, looking deep down into the flaming center of the cone. Then, as if at a signal, they stood up, lifted their heads, and gazed upward to where the tree trunk poles of the tent joined high above them.
As they stood this way, several boys and girls turned and came toward us. They lifted me onto their shoulders and began walking down the steps. The old man and woman continued ahead of us and the black woman and goldy-locks followed behind. I started to object, but in the complete stillness my voice sounded so strange that it startled even me before it died off.
People stood at random on the steps. There was no straight pathway down. The boys and girls carried me around and among the people going step by step. All the people, even the children, kept their eyes upward, fixed on the joined beams of the great tent. Again and again I followed their gaze, and as we descended deeper into the cone, the massive logs above seemed to pierce more deeply upward into the sky where they converged in the center.
For one ridiculous, panic-stricken second I believed that they were going to carry me to the deepest center of the cone and throw me into the flames. At that point one of the children cheated; looking away from the tent-top, he sneaked a quick look at me. When he caught my eye he grinned and stopped me from making a fool of myself. I’d been about to start screaming and thrashing.
The fire in the center was set in a great pit. Earthen pots sat around the edges. The boys and girls circled the flames with me three times and then set me down.
The bald man and cat woman began to chant again, but this time the chant was taken up by the boys and girls. The nearest people joined in, and then others beyond them, and beyond them. As they joined in the chant they lowered their gaze from the tent-top and looked down at me.
I call it a chant, but it was not really that. It was a wordless song beginning with the thread of melody from the old woman and woven round and round by the others as they joined. The harmonies thickened, becoming tightly complex, then suddenly opened out, like the unraveling of knotted threads. The melody moved to higher and higher pitches, the harmonies thickening at each rise, until suddenly all the voices landed on a high note of unison that pierced like a bright light. Then silence.
The silence lasted for only a moment. Then somebody giggled. The boys and girls who had carried me ran up the steps again. The first row of people stepped forward toward me, but then went beyond me to the fire. They picked up some of the earthen posts and went, up the steps. One of them came to me, pulled something out of a pot and held it up to my mouth. I opened my mouth, and he put it in. It tasted like sweet potato.
Everyone around me was laughing and smiling. People carried pots and walked around putting bits of food in the mouths of others. No one fed himself from the pots, except one or two of the small children. I noticed that when they fed themselves, someone always rushed up to them, smiling, and fed them from another pot. Then someone would take the pot away from the child and feed him and others, unless the child caught on fast enough to start feeding others.
The black woman walked up to me and held out a morsel, smiling at me. I took it in my mouth and looked straight into her blue eyes as I chewed and swallowed. Then I took the pot from her and, never dropping my gaze from hers, I took a bit of the food in my fingers and offered it to her. She smiled and opened her mouth. I reached for more, but she made a gesture toward the people around her. They were looking at me expectantly as if they wanted me to feed them. When I walked around putting food into their mouths they laughed and clasped their hands and made general gestures of delight. I supposed that they considered it a special honor to be fed by me, until I noticed that they made the same gesture when a small child stopped feeding himself and held out food toward others.
There wasn’t much food, and it took a long time to get everyone fed by this inefficient method, but everyone finally seemed to get enough. The people who emptied the pots cleaned them out with leaves, which were also eaten, then put them in a row around the fire.
The fire had died down to coals now, but the place was warm and comfortable. Everyone began to sit down on the steps again. I sat down in the front row next to the black woman. There were some murmurs, but generally everyone was getting quiet, as if they expected something.
When everyone was seated and quiet, the woman with the white cat stepped forward. Somebody put a thick mat on the ground near the fire. She sat down crosslegged on it and began to speak. It was the first time I’d heard anyone talk at length. I couldn’t understand a word, and I couldn’t identify the language, yet I felt I should be able to.
It reminded me of the time I had tried to practice my high school French on a native speaker, a boy who was visiting the States and could speak no English. What he spoke sounded like French, sounded like something I should understand. The structure of the sentences made sense, but the words did not. I could not understand a thing he said. I learned later that he spoke a provincial dialect.
This was how I felt listening to the woman as she droned on and on. The language was familiar, but I could not understand a word. It was English, yet it was not. It did not sound like any foreign language. The rhythms and word order somehow made sense to me. But I could not understand the words.
The red glow from the coals grew dim, and we saw the woman only by starlight. She held up one of the pots near the fire and, still talking, reached into it. Drawing her hand out, she sprinkled some sparkling drops over her head. I blinked, and they were gone. Her voice droned on.
I must have fallen asleep. I felt myself being lifted and I woke up. It was completely dark except for the stars that showed between the tent poles above. They carried me up the steps, out of the cone, down the circular paths and all the way back to the tent. Still groggy, I went inside and lay down, remembering to take my place as a spoke in the wheel-like sleeping arrangement. Then I fell asleep again.
I awoke while it was still dark. All the bodies around me were still. I lay and thought about the experience of the evening.
I had been through a ceremony, perhaps a kind of welcoming ritual. Whoever these people were, they were not an Indian tribe or a group that had fled the city. But who were they, and where was I? Their welcoming ceremony was harmless enough, but it implied that they expected me to stay, and might even keep me here by force.
They had simply not existed for me as real people before. I was concerned only with myself and with the world I had to go back to. But now my attention had been forced to include them and this place. It was time for me to find out something about where I was. Or maybe it was time for me to leave. Maybe I should just walk out, right now.
I got up very quietly, keeping my blanket wound around me. I was near the opening, and only fumbled for a moment in pulling back the flap. Then I was outside on the path.
The night had remained clear. The sky was
dead black, with stars piercing brightly. I could see the spokes of the great tent above the trees. In the opposite direction I saw a hill, shining gray in the moonlight. I shook my right leg. Could I make it? The hill was not so very far away, not so very high. I could walk there, climb the hill, by sunrise. From the hill perhaps I would see a road or even possibly a town.
I set off at once, keeping my eyes on the hill. Rather than following the paths, I went straight, stepping over the low stone walls of the paths, passing by other tents like the one I stayed in. All was very still except that along the way I disturbed the animals.
A squatty reddish dog sat up as I passed; sheep, goats and rodent-like things shifted restlessly. One large spotted cat followed me for a while. Birds perched everywhere, flapped their wings and cocked one eye at me.
But very soon, by cutting across the paths, I came to the end of the tents. Beyond them I saw rows of strange little mounds. When I got close, they looked like igloos, with low, crawl-in tunnels leading to them. I stopped and looked at one, remembering. It must have been in one of these, not in a cave, that they had put me when they found me.
Beyond the little igloo-mounds were open fields, with earth that was soft. I sank into the soft dirt as I walked, and looking down I could see some kind of small, young growth. I bent down and pulled up a leaf. It was the kind I had eaten, the kind woven into cups, used for spoons, for cleaning out the pots. This must be where they cultivated their food, perhaps working in the fields all day.
Beyond the field I came to rows and rows of small trees. Gradually the trees became thicker and there were more bushes among them. I lost sight of the hill and could only guess at where I was heading. I sat down to rest several times. My leg was very tired.
Then I saw that the ground sloped upward slightly. I knew I had reached the base of the hill, and that thought gave me a new burst of energy. I pushed upward, panting as the climb became steeper and steeper. The hill was higher than I thought, but that only meant I would see more when I got to the top. The sky was fading. Before long, the sun would rise, and at about that time I would reach the top of the hill. It was easier now because I could see better. The trees were thinning out, and the ground was quite light.
The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You Page 3