The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You

by Dorothy Bryant

  My daughter seemed to spin through life, like an amber top. She had left our ka when Augustine went back and, though she came to help me with the skins, she avoided me otherwise, as though wary that, since her mother had left, I might come to depend too much on her. She would soon reach womanhood, as a desert blossom that suddenly bursts upon the world. Soon the blossom would become fruit; she would have a child and end this spinning. Then, perhaps, she would start to glow, as her mother did.

  I spent those years following Augustine and telling of her in the ka. I began a skin, telling of her activities, to add to the Chronicles of Ata.

  She worked hard at menial tasks and kept little for herself. What she had, she gave where it was needed. She sang in poor store front churches and brought great comfort to miserable people, but she and her songs were also in the front of protests against injustice, and many marched to her song. I was always beside her, hoping to help with whatever strength I could give her, but feeling always that it was I who drew strength from her.

  Always there were more and more people around her. Crowds began to come to hear her sing in church; political groups asked her to perform. Whenever this began to happen, she packed her few things and moved to another city, another housework job, another storefront church. This was how she kept her anonymity.

  What more is there to say to describe those years? They were happy ones, but not in the mindless, childish ways of the ones before. We learned to be together in almost every instant, and we rose to love which shares pain.

  At the end of the seventh year she was killed, by frightened men in a senseless riot. They had set dogs upon her, but the dogs refused to touch her. A young man raised a rock to throw it, and she stepped in front of him. She was shot.

  I knelt over her as she lay on the street. “You were to show me the way out,” I said, without speaking.

  “That is what I have done.”

  “Don’t leave me, Augustine.”

  “I will never leave you.” And she was gone.

  I told it in the la-ka that night, as I had, for all those years, told everything she did. We walked in procession to the high cliff where the dead are left, and we waited for the sunrise. And when the light came up from the water, I knew Augustine was in it, and I was glad that she had been freed from her ordeal and allowed to go Home.

  I no longer saw Augustine, either waking or sleeping. And, remembering what she had told me when the old Frenchman died, I did not try to call her back. I kept the rhythm with as much patience as I could, desiring nothing, trying not even to desire to see Augustine. Whether or not I could see her and touch her, she must be there. She had said she would be.

  At this time we ran out of skins. I had written on everything possible. Most of my helpers had lost interest, but new children took up the bone pens each year and learned to make scratches. As they matured, they left me, as my daughter had at about the time of Augustine’s death.

  I had run out of skins precisely at that point where I envisioned an even greater expansion of the work. For after years of collecting the dreams of Ata I had been more and more intrigued by their similarity to mythology, folklore and literature of the outside world. For every version of every Atan dream there were scores of corresponding versions in the outside world. I had an idea that if I could reconcile all versions from the outside world with the several Atan versions, I would arrive at some greater truth behind them. If, in fact, I could manage to do this with only one dream, in all its multiple expressions, that effort would be a worthwhile project to fill the remaining years of my life.

  But where to write it?

  Immediately I had a clear dream in which I saw the stone wall covered with carved writing. I took this to mean that, reluctant as I had been to labor so tediously, I should begin to work on the stone wall. I told this dream to Salvatore in the morning, and immediately went out to begin. He followed me and watched.

  I began to wash and scrape down a portion of it. When I had it quite clean, I felt and examined it closely to see what kind of tool I would need for etching into the stone. That was when I began to see a pattern in the scratchings. For the next few days, I scrubbed and scraped sections of the wall, finding the same patterns, faint and eroded, but clearly there, and clearly like the markings I saw in my dream.

  Salvatore sat silent, watching me.

  “Did you ever notice these markings before?”

  He nodded.

  “What do you think they are?”

  “What you think they are, my kin,” he said gently.

  “How long have you known they were there?”

  “For a while. I too saw them in my dreams.”

  “Was your dream like mine?”

  “No, there was more to it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In my dream the people of Ata began to make markings. They were very pleased, believing that all the great dreams of Ata would be captured and preserved, and none would be lost. They wrote on skins, on clay, on mud. They even wove the stories into the mats. Finally, because all these things decayed and were gone, they carved the stories into the stones of the wall, and the stones of the hol-kas. I think that if we take a light into a hol-ka we will probably find better preserved markings in the rocks.

  “But then disputes arose as to which were the best versions of the dreams, and as to whether the mark gave the correct meaning. Many more marks were invented, and many worked on carving alternate stories. Kin split over which story was correct. Which should be carved and preserved? There was no time to carve all the stories; choices would have to be made.

  “But even more serious was the effect that writing had upon the words of the story. It froze them. People began to mistake the word for the unknown behind it. Instead of expressing the unknown, the carved word became a thing between the people and the unknown which it should symbolize.

  “All was donagdeo. The people ceased to dream high dreams. And so, one by one they stopped the writing and the reading. They went back to the old way of telling the dreams in spoken words that rose like smoke and disappeared into the air to intermingle there, where there was room for an infinite number of dreams, which could change and grow and become closer to the reality.”

  “That sounds,” I said, “like a part of the history of Ata.”

  “Yes,” said Salvatore. “It was lost for a long time, up there in the air, but it has come back in our dreams when it was needed again.”

  “Why did you wait to tell me?”

  “I spoke it in the dawn. You did not happen to hear.”

  “Why, didn’t I listen?”

  “We can only hear what we know.”

  “And only see what we believe is there?” I pointed to the stones of the wall. He laughed. We sat down together and laughed. I saw how futile were my attempts, my categories, my agonizing over the choice of a word, my attempts to fix permanently something that was alive and must grow. Even the children had known better than I; they put it behind as they did other childhood games when they began to grow up.

  “Why do you suppose my dreams told me to write for all those years?”

  “Who can know? For some reason important to you.”

  “I thought I was writing for the others, for all kin.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No. I was writing for myself. Maybe to make the dreams of Ata a part of me … running them through myself as water rains down and filters through the earth.”

  “Perhaps.”

  We stopped talking and laughed again. Laughter was better than words; silence better than both.

  I left the skins as they were. We unrolled them and used them to cover kas or to wrap babies against the winter cold.

  That winter I slipped into trance and remained quite, warm, needing little food.

  And now I began to dream steadily and richly. I learned that there are levels of dreams far higher than I had imagined, higher than anything Salvatore had told me, higher than could be expressed, even in the language of
Ata. But some I could express. I dreamed new versions of the stories I had written down. We added them to what we already had, as I told them in the la-ka, letting them rise “like smoke” into the rich atmosphere where there was room for all signs and symbols of the reality that was there though we did not see it, as Augustine was there though I did not see her.

  Seasons passed, but I no longer kept track of the number of cycles through which we lived. Time was one; there was only now. I dreamed by night and sometimes by day. I kept my rhythm, thankful for each day that I was able not to fall too short of nagdeo, especially considering the kind of man I am. I felt Augustine everywhere now, yet not as I did before, but her essence, like traces of her in the air, in the people, the animals, something that was and was not Augustine, but was becoming something greater than Augustine, something purer, now that she was released.

  In the afternoons, after the field work, I told the children tales, remembering the ones I had written and elaborating upon them from my dreams or from ideas that sprang into my head while awake. In the river grove I discovered a new kind of herb, one that no one on the island could remember seeing before. I had seen it in a dream, found it where Augustine and I used to lie, and knew that it should be added to our spring broth.

  I was grateful that I had been able finally to do one small thing for so great a people. For now I knew them as they really were, not a happy, primitive, innocent people, free from the cares of the world, but the sustainers, the sufferers who tried to counter-balance what was done by men like me. People waiting patiently since the beginning of time, resigned to going on till the end of time, knowing that they could look for no great progress, no sign of the coming fulfillment of their dreams. People who gave all their strength to the most strict, self-imposed, unarticulated discipline, resigned to maintaining this balance, and the balance of the whole insane world, until it would, of its own choice and from its own realization of necessity, come back to Ata.

  It was only after living among them for so long that I understood the greatest miracle of Ata. It was this: that the people were no different from any other people in the world, subject to the same faults, desires and temptations, but living each day in battle against them.

  My summons came very quietly during a winter trance. It was not spoken in words, so it cannot be translated.

  On the first bright spring day, Salvatore, fragile and hairless, looking rather like Aya, knelt in front of the fire and asked, “Has any kin been chosen?”

  At the third, “Has any kin been chosen,” I felt myself rising without my own will. I heard the moans of the people as I walked down the steps, fixing my eyes on the great fire. I stood before the fire until the silence deepened and deepened, until the universe stood still and I heard the unspoken, “Now!” And I stepped into the flames.

  Six

  “He’s pretty badly burned.”

  “What’s in the I.V.?”

  “Just dextrose and water. For dehydration.”

  “Has he come around at all?”

  “No, but then he’s under heavy sedation.”

  “Pulse?”

  “Pretty steady.”

  I could distinguish two men’s voices and one woman’s. Then everyone drifted away again.

  Sometime later I surfaced through the drugs again to hear their voices.

  “I think he’ll make it. How’s the fever?”

  “Almost normal.”

  “Try to get some food down him.”

  Again I slipped away, only dimly seeing a woman from time to time putting something into my mouth, then touching me in some way. I opened my eyes. My right leg, in a cast, tilted upward in front of me.

  “We’re just removing some of the bandages,” she said. “There, you look almost human.” She smiled at me. “Do you know where you are?”

  I opened my mouth, but I had forgotten the word. I stammered a couple of times, “Host … hos … hosp …”

  “That’s right, you’re in a hospital. I’m your nurse, Mrs. Banner.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re a very lucky man. Those burns were pretty bad.”

  I didn’t try to answer. Speaking English was too much effort. I lay still, thinking that I must remember to tell Salvatore that he was wrong in thinking the exile was completed before the chosen kin actually touched the fire.

  The nurse went on chattering. “But you’re healing so well that there probably won’t be any scars. You’ll be just as handsome as ever,” she simpered, as if I were a young man. I wondered if that were part of the therapy. I didn’t know how to respond; it had been so long since I had been exposed to anything but simplicity and honesty. “Want to see?” She picked up a mirror from the table, and held it before my face.

  I had not seen my reflection during all the time on Ata. Most of the skin on my face was peeling. My eyes were still almost swollen shut. I looked thinner than I ever had been, but aside from that there was no change. One side of my head was shaved and bandaged. But the other side still sprouted thick black hair. I was puzzled, for although the people on Ata were unusually healthy, they aged the same as all people.

  “Bet it’ll be a long time before you feel like sunbathing,” the nurse rattled on. She took the mirror away, and I closed my eyes so that she wouldn’t expect me to answer her. I tried to trance, but couldn’t. I lay quietly with my eyes closed remembering that I would have to wait with patience to discover what it was I was to do next. Perhaps, like Augustine, I would roam anonymously where I was needed. I felt the nurse giving me another injection, and, as I went under, I felt a fleeting doubt cross my mind: after all this time, had the nurse recognized me?

  I awoke from a drugged sleep, thinking that I must refuse to let them give me any more drugs—it might take days before I could dream again. My leg lay flat on the bed now. I sat up and tried to trance, but I still could not.

  “Feeling better?” A nurse got up from a chair across the room. She stretched. “I’m the night nurse. You’ve had special nurses round the clock, but it looks as if you won’t need them anymore. Before I go, could I … have your autograph? My boyfriend is a great fan of yours.”

  She was holding out a slip of paper and a pen. I took the pen in my hand and just looked at it. Then I put it to the paper, but I couldn’t write. I wanted to tell her that through all my years on Ata, I had remained nameless. I held the pen, waiting, wondering if perhaps my name would be given to me now. But nothing came.

  She frowned. “Sorry, of course, you’re tired.” She walked out stiffly, and as she opened the door I saw a flash of dark blue uniform. There was a policeman standing in the hall outside my door. I heard a rush of voices, then a firm, “No, gentlemen, nobody goes in.”

  I watched the dawn gray the sky and wished I had a dream to tell to myself. In a little while another nurse came in.

  “Well, you look quite yourself today. Maybe you can eat something. Right after medication.” She took a small paper cup off a tray and handed it to me. It contained two red pills. I shook my head. “Come now, you must take your medication. Doctor’s orders.”

  I shook my head again. “No … more … drugs,” I managed. “Please,” I remembered.

  She went on urging and insisting but I paid no attention to her. When she finally flounced out of the room, I was relieved; although even the quiet of this place was noisy, it was good to be alone. But she was back again almost immediately with a doctor.

  “Well, glad to see you up and alive,” he said, uneasily. “Got some pills here’ll make you well faster.”

  “No drugs, please,” I repeated.

  He gave me a kind of sneer. “I can appreciate your feelings, but these aren’t drugs in that sense. They’re to help you get well. You’re very subject to infection right now. These pills are just anti-biotics.”

  There was no use arguing, no use trying to tell him that I could cure myself faster without them. The arguing would simply make things worse. I took the pills.

  As soon as I
swallowed them, he looked triumphant and relaxed as if he’d been worried about what he’d do if I continued to refuse. He became even friendly. “You realize what happened?”

  I started to nod my head; then I knew that I should not explain how I got here. I thought it best to hear the story as he saw it, I shook my head.

  “You had an accident. On Bear Mountain Road. Your car went off. Must have gone 300, 400 yards, straight down. It’s a miracle you survived at all. Do you remember anything? No, I see from the look on your face … you were thrown clear, but injured pretty badly, bump on the head, broken leg, lacerations and bruises.

  “That valley’s pretty hot and dry this time of year, 120 degrees at noon. No one goes down there. It was just a lucky accident some kids found you. Otherwise you couldn’t have lasted another day. As it was you were practically naked, burned to a crisp, delerious. You’d wandered several miles from the car, dragging yourself around and around in circles. They found traces. You ended up back at the car again. When they brought you in, we didn’t think much of your chances; after three weeks of that, we were surprised to find you breathing. Amazing, the recuperative powers of a young body. Remember anything?”

  The door opened. “Don’t say anything!” A man rushed over to the bed. It took me a few minutes to get him straight.

  “Spanger,” I said, my lawyer, H.P. Spanger.

  “He doesn’t remember anything,” said Spanger to the doctor.

  “Apparently not,” said the doctor, with a sneer that turned into a shrug of indifference. “He’s still not allowed visitors.”

  “I won’t stay long,” said Spanger.

  “Five minutes,” said the nurse.

  Spanger watched them go, then turned to me. “What do you remember?”

  I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t think at all.

  “Listen, I’ve gotten you out of plenty of messes, but it’ll be a miracle if I can get you out of this one. Try to pull yourself together, and, remember, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t say anything to anyone. This place is crawling with reporters and every nurse gets two cash offers an hour for any quotation.