“She defied them,” said Akma. “And they didn’t kill her.”
“There’s more to it than that, Akma,” said Akmaro. “It’s a gift that your mother has had all her life. She’s a raveler.”
“Hushidh,” whispered Luet. The tales of Hushidh the Raveler were well known among the women and girls. Not to mention Chveya, Nafai’s and Luet’s daughter, the Ancient One for whom Chebeya had been named.
“She sees the connections between people,” Akmaro explained to Akma.
“I know what a raveler is,” said Akma.
“To be a raveler is a gift of the Keeper,” said Akmaro. “The Keeper must have seen, years ago, the dilemma we’d be in today, and so he gave a great gift to Chebeya so that when this day came, she could begin to unravel the conspiracy of evil that rules over us. We had with us all along the power to do what your mother began today. The Keeper only waited for us to realize it. For your mother to find the right moment to act.”
“It looked to me,” said Akma, “as if Mother stood alone.”
“Is that what you saw?” asked Akmaro. “Then your vision is still very young and blurred. For your mother stood with the power of the Keeper in her, and with the love of her husband and children inside her. If you and Luet and I had not been in the field with her, do you think she would have done it?”
“ We were there,” said Akma. “But where was the Keeper?”
“Someday,” said Akmaro, “you will learn to see the Keeper’s hand in many things.”
When the children were asleep, Chebeya rested her head on her husband’s chest and clung to him and wept. “Oh, Kmadaro, Kmadaro, I was so frightened that I would make things worse.”
“Tell me your plan,” he said. “If I know your plan I can help you.”
“I don’t know my plan. I have no plan.”
“Then here is the plan that came into my mind as I watched you and listened to you. I thought at first that you were simply trying to get those boys to rebel against their father. But then I realized that you were doing something far more subtle.”
“I was?”
“You were winning Didul’s heart.”
“If he has one.”
“You were teaching him how to be a man. It’s a new idea to him. I think he’d like to be a good man, Bedaya.”
She thought about it. “Yes, I think you’re right.”
“So we won’t tear these boys away from each other. Instead we’ll make friends and allies of them.”
“Do you think we can?” asked Chebeya.
“You mean, Do I think we should? Yes, Bedaya. They can’t help being what their father taught them to be. But if we can teach them to be something else, they might be good men yet. That is what the Keeper wants us to do—not destroy our enemies, but make friends of them if we can.”
“They’ve hurt my children so many times,” said Chebeya.
“Then how sweet the day will be when they kneel and ask your forgiveness, and your children’s forgiveness, and the three of you say, We know that you are no longer the men you were then. Now you are our brothers.”
“I can’t ever say that to them.”
“You can’t say that to them now,” said Akmaro. “But you, too, will have a change of heart, when you see them also change.”
“You always believe the best of other people, Kmadaro.”
“Not always,” said Akmaro. “But in that boy today, I saw a spark of decency. Let’s blow on that spark and give it fuel.”
“I’ll try,” said Chebeya.
Lying on his mat, Akma heard his parents’ conversation and thought, What kind of man is he, to talk to Mother about making friends with the very ones who lashed her skin and made her bleed today? I will never forgive these men, never, no matter how they seem to change. Men who are friends with diggers can never be trusted. They have become just like diggers, low filthy creatures who belong in holes under the earth like worms.
For Father to talk of teaching and forgiving a worm like Didul was just another sign of his weakness. Always running, hiding, teaching, forgiving, fleeing, submitting, bowing, enduring—where in Father’s heart was the courage to stand and fight? It was Mother, not Father, who stood against Didul and the diggers today. If Father really loved Mother, he would have spent tonight vowing revenge for her bloody wounds.
FOUR
DELIVERANCE
Monush followed Ilihiak into his private chamber and watched as the king barred the door behind him. “What I’m going to show you,” said Ilihiak, “is a great secret, Monush.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t show me,” said Monush. “My loyalty is sworn to Ak-Moti, and I will keep no secret from him.”
“But that’s why I brought you here, Ush-Mon. You have the deepest trust of your great king. Do you think that I don’t know that my kingdom would be hardly a small district of the empire of Darakemba? The stories reach us even here, that the Nafari who went down the Tsidorek have now become the greatest kingdom in the gornaya. What I have here is a matter for a great king, a king like Motiak, I think. I know it’s beyond me.”
Monush felt strongly that if there were two men, one would be greater than the other, and somewhere else there would always be one greater than either. True nobility consisted of recognizing one’s betters as well as one’s inferiors, and giving proper respect to all, never pretending to be above one’s natural place. Ilihiak clearly understood that he had a greater rank and authority than Monush, but that Motiak was greater than either of them. It made Monush feel more confident in the man.
“Show me without fear, then,” said Monush, “for I will reveal what I see to no man except my lord Motiak.”
“To no man,” said Ilihiak. “According to our ancient lore, the humans of Darakemba include male angels and male diggers in the word man.”
“That’s right,” said Monush. “A male of the sky people, the earth people, or the middle people is a true man in the eyes of our law.”
Ilihiak shuddered. “My people will have a hard time with this. We came to this land to get away from living with the wings of angels always in our faces. And here we’ve had ample cause to hate the diggers—our crops have been watered with the blood of many good men. Men. And diggers.”
“I think King Motiak will not try to humiliate you, but will allow you to find a valley where you can buy the land of whatever angels dwell there and live without giving or receiving offense. But of course this would make you a subject nation instead of full citizens, for among citizens there can be no difference between people over, under, and on the earth.”
“It won’t be my choice, Monush. It will be the choice of my people.” Ilihiak sighed. “Our hatred for the diggers has increased by being close to them. The only angels we see here are slaves or subject people, and they shun us. It will be hard for our young men to learn that it isn’t decent sport to shoot arrows at them when they fly too near.”
Monush shuddered. It was a good thing that Husu had not flown along with them, to hear this.
“I see how you judge us,” said Ilihiak. “I fear you may be right. There was a man who came among us, an old man named Binadi. He told us that our way of life was an affront to the Keeper. That we mistreated the angels and that the Keeper loved angels, diggers, and humans as equals. That what mattered was whether a man was kind to all others, and whether he kept the laws of decency. He was . . . very specific in pointing out the many ways that the king my father failed to measure up. And his priests.”
“You killed him.”
“My father . . . was ambivalent. The man spoke very powerfully. Some believed him—including one of Father’s priests. The best of them. He was my teacher, a man named Akmadi. No, that was Father’s name for him. I called him Akmaro, because he was my honored teacher, not a traitor. I was there at the trial of Binadi, when Akmaro rose to his feet and said, ‘This man is Binaroak, the greatest teacher. I believe him, and I want to change my life to measure up to his teachings.’ That was the crud
est moment for my father—he loved Akmaro.”
“Loved? He’s dead?”
“I don’t know. We sent an army after him, but he and his followers must have been warned. They fled into the wilderness. We have no idea where they are now.”
“Those are the ones who believe that men of every kind are equal before the Keeper?”
“If only driving away Akmadi—Akmaro—were our worst crime.” Ilihiak stopped to draw a breath; it was a tale he didn’t want to tell. “Father was afraid of Binadi. He didn’t want to kill him, just to exile him again. But Pabulog, the chief priest—he insisted. Goaded Father.” Ilihiak stroked his hair back from his face. “Father was a man who was very susceptible to fear. Pabulog made him afraid to leave Binadi alive. ‘If he can trick and trap even Akmadi, then how will you ever be safe?’ That sort of thing.”
“Your father had bad counselors,” said Monush.
“And I fear that you think he also had a disloyal son. But I wasn’t disloyal during his lifetime, Monush. It was only when I was forced into ruling in his place, after he was murdered—”
“Do your troubles have no end?”
Ilihiak went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Only then did I realize the extent of his corruption. It was Binadi—Binaro—who understood my father. Well, he’s dead now, and I’m king over Zinom, such as it is. Half the men have been killed in wars with the Elemaki. After the last one, we bowed down and let them put their foot on our neck. It was then, in slavery, that we began to lose our arrogance and realize that if we had only stayed in Darakemba, wings in our faces or not, we would at least not be slaves to diggers. Our children would have enough to eat. We wouldn’t have to bear with insult every day of our lives.”
“So you let Binaro out of prison?”
“Out of prison?” Ilihiak laughed bitterly. “He was put to death, Monush. Burned to death, limb by limb. Pabulog saw to it personally.”
“I think,” said Monush, “that it would be wise for this Pabulog not to come to Darakemba. Motiak will apply his laws even over actions committed while Pabulog was in the service of your father.”
“Pabulog isn’t among us. Do you think he would be alive today if he were? He fled at the time they killed my father, taking his sons with him. Like Akmaro, we have no idea where he is.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Ilihiak. Your people have done terrible things, as a nation.”
“And we’ve been punished for them,” said Ilihiak, his temper flaring for a moment.
“Motiak isn’t interested in punishment, except for a man who tortures one chosen by the Keeper. But Motiak can’t allow people who have done the things you’ve done to come into Darakemba.”
Ilihiak kept his kingly posture, but Monush could see the almost imperceptible sagging of his shoulders. “Then I shall teach my people to bear their burdens bravely.”
“You misunderstand,” said Monush. “You can come to Darakemba. But you will have to be new people when you arrive.”
“New people?”
“When you cross the Tsidorek the last time, you won’t use the bridge. Instead your people, all of them except the little children, must walk through the water and then symbolically die and be buried in the river. When you rise up out of the water, you have no name and no one knows you. You walk to the riverbank, and there you take the most solemn oath to the Keeper. From then on you have no past, but your future is as a true citizen of Darakemba.”
“Let us take the oath at once—we have a river here, and at the waters of Oromono, where the rains fall from the cliff forever, there is water as holy as any in the Tsidorek.”
“It’s not the water—or, rather, not the water alone,” said Monush. “You can teach your people the covenant, so they understand the law they’ll be accepting when they leave here for Darakemba. But the passage through the water has to take place near the capital—I don’t have the authority to make you new men and women.”
Ilihiak nodded. “Akmaro did.”
“The passage through the water? That’s only done in Darakemba.”
“The rumor we heard was that when he was in hiding at Oromono, he took people through the water and made them new.” Ilihiak laughed bitterly. “The way Pabulog explained it, they were drowning babies. As if anyone would believe such a thing.”
Monush wouldn’t bother trying to explain to Ilihiak that it was only the king of the Nafari who had the right to make new men and women. Whoever and wherever this Akmaro was, his usurpation of the power of Motiak had nothing to do with the negotiations today. “Ilihiak, I think you have nothing to fear from Motiak. And whether your people choose to take the covenant or not, one way or another you’ll find peace within the borders of Darakemba.”
The king shook his head. “They’ll take the covenant, or I won’t lead them. We’ve had enough of trying to live as humans alone. It not only can’t be done, but also isn’t worth doing.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Monush, and he started for the door.
“But where are you going?” asked Ilihiak.
“Wasn’t this the secret you wanted to tell me?” asked Monush. “What your father and Pabulog did to Binadi?”
“No,” said Ilihiak. “I could have told you that in front of my council. They all know how I feel about these things. No, I brought you here to show you something else. If the Elemaki knew about this, if even a hint of a rumor reached their ears . . .”
Hadn’t he already promised to keep all secrets except from Motiak? “Show me, then,” said Monush.
Ilihiak walked to his bed, a thick mat that lay on the floor in the center of his chamber. Sliding it out of the way, he brushed aside the reeds and rushes and then his fingers probed a certain spot in one of the stones of the floor and suddenly another large flagstone dropped away. It was on hinges, and where it had been, a dark hole gaped.
“Do you want me to bring you a torch?” asked Monush.
“No need,” said Ilihiak. “I’ll bring it up.”
The king dropped down into the hole. In the darkness it had looked as though it went down forever, but in fact when Ilihiak stood upright his shoulders rose out of the hole. He bent down, picked up something heavy, and lifted it to the floor of the chamber. Then he climbed out.
The object was wrapped in a dirty cloth; the king unwound it, revealing a basket, which he opened, then took out a wooden box. Finally that, too, was open, and inside was the gleam of pure gold.
“What is it?” asked Monush.
“Look at the writing,” said Ilihiak. “Can you read it?”
Monush looked at the characters engraved into the gold leaves. “No,” he said. “But I’m not a scholar.”
“Nor am I, but I’ll tell you this much—it isn’t in any language I’ve ever heard. These letters have almost no similarities with any alphabet, and the patterns are wrong for our language, too. Where are the suffixes and prefixes? Instead there are all these tiny words—what could they be? I tell you, this was not written by Nafari or Elemaki.”
“Angels?” asked Monush.
“Did they have writing before the humans came?”
Monush shrugged. “Who knows? It doesn’t look like their language, either. The words are all too short. As you said. Where did you get it?”
“As soon as I became king, I sent out a group of men to search for Darakemba so we could find our way back. My grandfather deliberately destroyed all records of the route he took to lead our people here from Darakemba and he refused to let anyone ever tell. He said it was because such information was useless—we were never going back.” Ilihiak smiled wryly. “We knew we had come up the Tsidorek—that’s not hard—but it’s not as if my men could ask directions from the local Elemaki. We had trouble enough already without them finding us sending out exploring parties. So they found a likely river and followed it. It was a very strange river, Monush—they followed it down and down and down till they reached a place where the water was very turbulent. And then the river continued in a straigh
t line, but now the water was flowing the opposite way!”
“I’ve heard of the place,” said Monush. “They found the Issibek. It’s the next river over. It’s really two rivers flowing directly toward each other. Where they meet, there’s a tunnel leading through solid rock for many leagues until the river spouts out of the rock and forms a new river flowing to the sea.”
“That explains it. To my men it seemed to be a miracle. They thought it was a sign they were on the right path.”
“They found this writing there?”
“No. They followed the river to its northern head, and then found their way among ever lower valleys until at last they must have left the gornaya entirely. It was a hot, dry land, and to their horror it was covered by the bones of dead humans. As if there had been a terrible battle. Thousands and thousands and thousands of humans were slain, Monush—beyond all numbering. And all the dead were human, make no mistake about it. Not a digger, not an angel among them.”
“I’ve never heard of such a place, though the desert is real enough. We call it Opustoshen—the place of desolation.”
“That sounds like the right name for it,” said Ilihiak. “My men were sure that they had found what happened to the people of Darakemba, and why they hadn’t found the city anywhere along the river.”
“They thought these dead humans were us?”
“Yes,” said Ilihiak. “Who can tell, in a desert, how long anything has been dead? Or so they said to me. But as they searched among the bodies, they found these.”
“What, lying on the ground, and nobody had already looted them?”
“Hidden in a cleft of the rock,” said Ilihiak. “In a place that looks too small to get anything inside. One of the men had had a dream the night before, and in the dream he found something marvelous in a cleft of rock that he said was just like the one he found near the battlefield. So he reached inside—”
“The fool! Doesn’t he know there are deadly snakes in the desert? They hide in shaded clefts like that during the day.”
“There were a dozen snakes in there, the kind that make dancing music with their tails—”
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