by Paul Telegdi
“Yes, the best. They gave me some herbs and things to eat and drink, but they have not helped.”
“Hhhmmmm. It is sometimes just a question of time. Both of you are young.” Chaiko racked his brains, searching for something useful to say to the girl. “And you have tried?”
“Yes. Sometimes twice in the same night,” she said blushing.
“And he does not grow tired in this?”
“Oh no, he is filled with so much duty. He... rests in between.”
“That’s good. And do you enjoy ah... his attentions?”
“Yes,” she blushed again furiously, her hands kneading the edge of her wrap; “It’s rather nice.”
Only nice? he almost asked. “Hmm, this needs time,” he said, then seeing her disappointment he quickly added, “I must find just the right ingredients for a potion to fix this. Come see me tomorrow and I will have it ready and tell you exactly what you must do.” First, I must ask Dawn, he told himself.
As soon as she left he asked Dawn. She blinked at him in surprise. What could he be expected to know of women things? But people brought their problems to their shaman, not to her.
“Do you suppose they are doing it wrong?” Chaiko asked. She looked questioningly at him. He shrugged his shoulders, he had been asked. “Makar used to like pretending that he is a bird. Do you know how birds do it?”
“Yes of course,” Dawn said with just a hint of indignation.
“No doubt,” he nodded then had to smile. “Like a duck.” He surprised her into a blush. He laughed aloud at her reaction and she started to get angry at him. “Shhh, shhh,” he pacified her. “I need some answers to give her tomorrow, so help me.”
“I will talk with her quietly and see if I can find out if they do... things right.” And she left to do just that.
Chaiko thought he would need some potion. Perhaps Tanya could help him with that. You promised to be straight and now you are being devious again, resorting to tricks; he paused to think about that self-accusation. But he had to build the girl’s confidence, in him and in whatever remedy he suggested. Her belief has to work for her not against her. Was that enough of a justification? He hoped so.
Dawn returned humming and immediately set about tidying and arranging things. “Well?” he finally prompted.
“They are more than right,” Dawn said with a faraway look in her eyes.
“How is one more than right?” Chaiko wanted to know.
“You have to use your imagination more,” she said. For a long time he chewed on that answer but he was determined he was not going to ask her any more questions on this subject.
But she staggered him with her next question. “Have you seen lizards...?”
“What?”
“Lizards? Basking in the sun? You know they get their energy from the sun and get quite frisky...”
“What?” he stammered, confused. What did lizards have to do with anything?
Chapter 16
Chaiko was up early, out prowling the venue where traders were just setting up their displays. The early excitement of the Gathering was burned out and they went about their tasks with routine determination. Most of their better wares were already sold. The previous day Chaiko had been approached by a one-legged man from Pelican-Sands who had asked for his help. Tikki had looked at Chaiko’s leg with great hunger in his eyes, seeing in it his own freedom of movement. Chaiko promised to help and this morning he was looking for suitable wood, perhaps another war club to convert. He found just the thing—a smasher that women used to pound grain into pulp. The wood was hard and dense and with a little care, would last a long time. The trader, however, did not want to accept the string of shells Chaiko offered.
Chaiko had to return to camp and found it deserted except for Tusk who was staring morosely into the curls of smoke from the main fire. What could be eating at him? Chaiko asked himself, but then went to see if he could find something in his possessions to trade. While searching, he found a few honeycombs and he took about half, knowing that Dawn would not be pleased if he took more. It tasted so delicious that he was sorely tempted to take more but desisted. He found a length of tightly wound rope of good quality hemp and also several copies of Crier-Bird, suitable for trade. He was about to leave but was arrested by Tusk’s demeanor. In all this time, the big man had not stirred. Chaiko went over and let himself down across from him. Tusk looked up and arched an eyebrow, puzzled at the shaman’s intrusion.
“It is good that I find you here,” Chaiko started in a roundabout way. “If Baer is indeed seeking the election to be Chief, he will need both of our help.” Tusk nodded but not a flicker of expression crossed his face. Deciding to come straight to the point, Chaiko asked outright, “What is bothering you? You look so... sad.”
“Do I?” Tusk asked, his face sour; sad was not his favorite word. Morose, bad tempered he could live with but sad? “Well I suppose I am.” But then he seemed at a loss to explain further.
“Is it this place?” Chaiko was trying to help him.
Tusk shrugged his shoulders and Chaiko’s alarm signals went off again. He did not know where the trouble was, but his attention was alerted, as if by a flight of birds suddenly taking to the air. “You are... disappointed?” Chaiko tried to refine his question but Tusk only shrugged again. Chaiko thought hard about the big man’s situation, realizing that Tusk was and had been alone. “Is it a woman...?”
“No...” Tusk shook his head, but then said, “Well yes, in a way.” Now Chaiko was really puzzled. “It is that I am now a grown man... but have so little to show for it.” Tusk struggled to put his feelings into words. Chaiko wanted to help him; words rose to his lips, but he bit them back. Listening is the beginning of understanding and compassion, he cautioned himself; let the man talk.
“You have a mate, have children. In them your future is assured. Me, I am alone.” Tusk’s face twisted into a grimace. “No different than Rea.”
“There are women out there who would be interested...” Chaiko began cautiously but Tusk waved him off.
“No. No. I could never understand them. They say one thing but mean another. They hide their feelings behind smiles and hide their eyes so you can’t read their intent.” Tusk was shaking his head from side to side. “If it were only a matter of speed, I could chase them down and catch them without any problem. If it were a matter of strength, I could do that too.” But again he shook his head, discouraged. “I do not have the honeyed words of Makar to attract them, or the gentleness of soul to keep them.” He lapsed into a dejected silence. Chaiko was astounded by these revelations of self, more words than he had ever heard from Tusk.
“Tell me about your mother,” Chaiko said gently.
Tusk’s head came up startled and he asked, “Why?”
“We first learn about women from our mothers,” Chaiko hurriedly explained, then stopped so as not to overstress the point.
“My mother was a quiet sort, said little and asked for less. A mouse really,” Tusk conceded. “My father, on the other hand, was a demanding type. He knew only one way to live and he lived it.” That was as far as Tusk could take it.
“So you learned to respect strength and prize a straightforward view. Preferring directness without nuances, without subtlety. You grew strong and gained people’s respect,” Chaiko offered, but kept silent his other thoughts; you feared the softness of tenderness, the vulnerability of being in love... could only trust strength. No wonder there was no place for a woman in your life. But was that really it? “The weakness of strength is that it often does not touch the heart.”
Tusk nodded as if he understood. He looked up at the shaman, his eyes full of pain. “I was always big for my age, but was not always strong. I had to learn that! A half day north of the old cave there is a spill of rocks. As I grew up I went there choosing larger and larger boulders to lift, training great strength in my arms and back. Each year the stones I chose grew heavier. Until I reached a certain size and then I could lift nothing
bigger. Year after year, I go there to lift that stone to test my strength.” Tusk looked into the distance, struggling with inner conflicts. When he next spoke his voice was strangely strained. “This year... I could not lift that rock... though I tried... over and over again...”
It suddenly became very clear to Chaiko what this was all about. Tusk who prided himself on his strength, suddenly found it deserting him. “All of us reach that point in our lives...”
“Yes! But you have done something with your life,” Tusk interrupted with the pent-up emotion bursting from him. “So have the others. Makar even. Gill also. I... I have gloried in my strength, as if that were enough.” He shook his head again. “How shall I earn respect any other way?” To Chaiko, questions were everyday things, but he could see that for Tusk, a question rarely surfaced; he did not hurry to answer it.
“There are other ways,” he said softly. “To fill your needs, first look to fill someone else’s.”
“How?” Tusk asked hungrily but Chaiko let the statement and the question hang in the air. After a while he looked at Tusk challengingly. “If it is a woman you want...” but Tusk shook his head no. “All right, but if you want to make a difference... then teach those who want to be taught, mentor those who need guidance, show the way to those who desire direction. Be a father to the fatherless!”
With his eyes closed Tusk thought hard, then asked tentatively, “Ruba?”
Chaiko nodded. “Let him be the difference then...” Yes, the son becomes the father’s strength, as the new generation learns from the one that went before. “Your life is also in the lives you have touched... in the memories you have left behind. Blessed is the man who can count his blessings, but more so if he can share them, for then are his blessing multiplied...” Chaiko recited an age-old saying, “Power is the strength of muscles; but generosity is the strength of the spirit.”
Then both sat quietly—the smoke wafting gently between them. Tusk struggled through what he had just heard and Chaiko bit his lips painfully to keep himself from saying more; he feared he might have said too much already. Whichever was the case, Tusk’s face slowly cleared, and when he rose and walked away his steps were full of energy again. Like the old Tusk, Chaiko was pleased to note. There was so much a shaman had to attend to, but it was nice to see when it was successful.
Chaiko hurried back to the trader and made the trade though he had to pay a steep price for the wood. All the same it was worth it. The wood was hard and strong, difficult to work, but would last forever. He hummed as he carefully burned a hollow onto the thicker end. He also shortened it but left enough to measure against Tikki for a final fitting. His fingers caressed the wood, enjoying the feel. Was there anything more satisfying than working wood, bringing purpose and design to a mute piece? Anything more sensual? Well, yes there was... but wood came a close second.
Later in the morning people flooded back into camp with the fresh news that Ruba was going to wrestle. They looked at each other unbelieving. Was the boy trying to kill himself? So soon after running yesterday, today he wanted to wrestle? There was a huge Dorgay boy whom nobody was able to beat for years. Ruba was going to wrestle him?
“Jump off a cliff, rather. It would surely be safer than taking on Moro,” his brother Ork advised him.
“Do you see any cliffs near about?” Ruba returned calmly. “So I guess I will have to fight Moro after all.”
“What does the boy have to prove?” Baer grumbled to Chaiko.
“That he is worthy,” Chaiko said instantly, remembering the feeling of that all too well.
“Then go tell him he is worthy,” Baer said gruffly.
“I would, but he does not want to hear it from me,” was all Chaiko would say on the matter.
“Moro will break him like a rotten twig,” Cosh stated dryly, summing up the boy’s chances.
People tried to dissuade Ruba, but the more they tried, the more stubborn he became. Lana pleaded with him too, “There must be another way.”
“He will kill you!” Ido said, brutally short.
“Then I will die.” Ruba dismissed all objections fatalistically. It was preferable to die than to live with the shame anyway. Maybe then Cora would take notice. But then it would be too late. Tears sprang into his eyes and he had to turn away to hide them.
The close was filled with a great throng of people, predominantly males as most of the women stayed away from such a cruel sport. But a delegation of Standing-Rock women came, tense and worried about Ruba. The men, too, stood about glumly appraising the boy’s chances. Ushi prophesied, “If Moro trips over his own feet, goes down and knocks the wind out of himself, hits his head on a rock, swallows his tongue in the mishap, maybe then... Ruba has a chance to pin him.”
Moro was indeed an impressive specimen for his age. He was big, strong, and amazingly quick for his size. He was also a cunning fighter who knew how to turn every opportunity to his advantage. It was a pleasure to see him dispatch his opponents, seemingly effortlessly. Pleasure indeed, if his opponent were not a friend.
Moro had beaten four challengers already and was having difficulty finding someone new. One by one, he had trapped them in his long arms and held them so cleverly that there was nothing they could do but submit. “No! No!” the last one had cried, Moro’s fingers deep in the muscles of his belly, increasing the pressure until the pain was threatening to tear the victim apart. “I yield! I yieeeld!” the hapless youth had howled in great pain.
Moro strutted around in the centre of the close, beating his oiled chest. “Will no one face me? Are you all cowards? Will no one dare measure strength with me?” And he strode up and down, slamming his feet into the ground and occasionally punching his open palm with a loud slap. Next year, he would have to fight the men, but this year he was still accounted a boy.
“Not one among you is man enough?” Moro yelled at the crowd tauntingly. The boys his age looked away, ashamed, avoiding his eyes. After all, they weren’t crazy.
“Will no one stand against me?” and Moro spit toward the crowd. A murmur swept through them. This was more than arrogant.
“I will,” a clear voice came from the edge of the crowd. People looked in surprise at Ruba standing there. He wore only a skin loincloth and his body was glistening with oil. Yes, he had come to fight, but was obviously crazy to test himself against the very, very best. “Who’s he?” the crowd wanted to know.
“Some fool from Standing-Rock,” came the terse reply, without pride, without bragging, just heavy with worry.
“Standing-Rock? Again?” came an echo from the crowd.
“Didn’t he come third in the foot race?” someone asked.
“Fourth,” someone else corrected.
Tusk strode over to Ruba, his face full of concern. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m more than sure,” Ruba said, his face set in a stubborn expression.
“He’ll hurt you,” Tusk said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I’m used to hurting,” Ruba said soberly.
“Well then…” Tusk hesitated; what could he say? “Remember, courage is not only in winning but in facing your fears.” Ruba nodded, turning to face his opponent.
Moro smiled, hugely pleased to find someone to feed his appetite for attention. “Well then come and try your best.”
The two closed. Ruba was of a fair size but next to Moro he was a shrimp. The other outweighed him, outreached him, and towered over him. People clucked regretfully at such a mismatch and the disaster that was sure to follow.
Moro hit his chest. “Well come on little man, do your best. Here is where I am weakest,” he taunted, patting his ample gut. Face set, Ruba moved in. His arm lashed out and wrapped around Moro, who allowed it, then Ruba tried to leverage the big boy off balance. Moro refused to move, an evil grin on his face. With a quick motion Ruba got behind Moro and wrapped his arms around him and tried to throw him. Moro just laughed, a pleased, nasty sound; for a moment he could do noth
ing, weakened by his own hilarity over the puny attempts of his opponent. Then things happened very quickly. Moro stomped hard on Ruba’s instep and swung an elbow back to catch Ruba in the midriff. Gasping for breath Ruba went down backwards with the big boy over him. Ruba slowly grew motionless under the weight of the bigger youth.
“Bah!” Moro exclaimed. “Is there nobody in this whole crowd who can give me a fight?” he almost pleaded. He got off Ruba and strode toward the crowd. “Will no one face me then?”
“Not until we’re finished,” a quiet voice said behind him and Moro spun around to see Ruba on his feet again.
“Ah you want another lesson?” Moro asked with a wicked grin. He closed, seized Ruba by the arm, and with a deft sweep of his leg, threw Ruba flat onto the ground. Quick as a flash he was on him again. Ruba did not fight him as there was nothing much he could do anyway, pinned as he was. Moro slapped him open-palmed on the chest then got up again. “Bah! Why do they not grow real men at Standing-Rock?” A stir went through that delegation, but a boy was a boy, even when he was insulting. Again he walked away from his prostrate opponent.
“Where so fast Dorgay? Should we not finish first?”
Moro spun around to find Ruba standing again. With one jump the Dorgay was there and tossed Ruba a good four lengths along the ground. This time he really trampled on him. “Stay down you fool before I kill you,” he hissed just a finger’s width from the other’s face.
“Do your worst Dorgay,” Ruba hissed back at him.
Furious, Moro locked his leg around Ruba and pulled him backwards putting unbelievable strain on his abdomen. The pain was so excruciating that Ruba could hardly breathe. He gurgled with the pain, but endured it.
“Yield!” Moro demanded through grinding teeth and increased the pressure. Ruba thought he would surely break in two, but he absorbed all the punishment.
“Yield damn you!” and Moro clutched at him anew causing a fresh spasm of pain to radiate through Ruba’s body. “Yield!” Moro was livid.