Naondel

by Maria Turtschaninoff

  “Has she said anything yet?”

  The boy gave me a quick glance.

  “No, Father. I wonder whether she is a mute. Or has taken a vow of silence.”

  “How very irritating. I could force her to talk, but we do not have the time. We must disempower this river as soon as possible. I have sent for Sonan. He is to meet us at the source. My maps indicate that it lies some days’ travel eastward.”

  “How will you disempower the river, Father?”

  “Sonan is bringing my scriptures,” answered the captain, as he gathered a few things in the tent. “I am certain the answer will be contained therein.”

  Written words—as if they could disempower my mighty River! And he wanted to travel upriver. Good. That would give my people plenty of time to get away in their canoes. I smiled to myself. The man seemed to sense this. He came over to me.

  “I believe the savage will be of help. When the time is right.”

  His words made my heart stop for a brief moment. I was one with the River. But perhaps torture could drive her secrets out of me. I did not know how the River could be killed, but perhaps I knew something else that could be of use to him.

  I had to die. It was the only answer. It was the only way to save the River. But again it was as if he could see inside me and read my thoughts.

  “I have postponed your death far into the future. It is no longer yours to decide over.”

  This man had crushed every bone in my body without touching me. I did not doubt he could decide over my death.

  * * *

  We travelled east with a diminished army. The captain, his son, his commanding officers and fifty or so men. Around half of them were on horseback; the rest were on foot. Bringing up the rear were a few mares laden with the captain’s tent and supplies. I was chained to the saddle of the last horse. An addition to the spoils of war. I could hardly see the captain and his son where they rode, tightly surrounded by their entourage.

  The water I had been given to drink was potent indeed and had healed all my wounds. Not even the River water had such fast-acting healing properties. We were traversing my land. This was where I had lived and worked and played since Onna first tempted me into her mud hut with that bowl of salt fish and fresh bread, so many years ago. Copperless and starved, I had been wandering the village for several days, stealing food where I could. But Onna gave me food, and then a home. Without asking for payment. Without asking for anything in return.

  The bushes and trees opened up and we walked along the slope of the first hill. The River was to our left, too far away to hear. But ever since I became the River Warrior I had been able to sense her presence, no matter however far I wandered. The ground was good. Firm and resilient underfoot, easy to walk on. I walked straight-backed as is befitting of the River folk. I considered myself to be one of them, though I came to them late.

  Onna told me later that she originally thought I was much younger than I was on account of my skinny legs. When I ventured through her door, enticed by that first bowl of salt fish, I was given hot food—clam soup, blackberry and nut pie and beer her neighbour had brewed. I devoured it hurriedly, convinced that she would ask for something in return. Nobody had given me anything for free in my years of wandering. Never.

  There was always a price. I did not believe it was my young flesh she was after. She was an old woman. I thought she must be one of those wisewomen. Maybe she wanted my young eyesight. Or my memories. Maybe she was taking them as I was eating, without my knowledge.

  “Take them,” I said. “Take them all.”

  She screwed up her watery eyes and peered at me. Then she gave me more pie and said nothing. I searched my mind carefully and found all my memories still there, entire and clear as the day they were created. The morning when I came in after staying overnight in the pigsty. The sow had given birth, and I had to make sure she did not roll over onto her new piglets. Inside our hut it was quiet. No fire in the hearth. No breakfast. Mother and Father were lying in their beds, already stiff. Little brother in his crib with his back arched in pain, also stiff. The disease that had snuffed them out was visible in the blisters on their hands and faces.

  All the huts in the village. Full of silence and death. I alone, in the pigsty, was spared.

  I rubbed my eyes with my palms. The memories would not leave. Nothing could rid me of them.

  “Take them,” I screamed. “Take them. I cannot bear them any longer!”

  Onna was quiet and her eyes were kind.

  Sometimes I wished I had never met such kindness. I told Onna that, in my darkest moments. I struck her for saving me. I cursed her, spat on her, clawed at her face. She would always repay me with even more persistent love.

  The River gave me Onna. The River gave me a home, a people. Then she gave me her very essence. And in the end she took it all away.

  I was treated like an animal on the journey. I was given plenty of water to drink but it was noticeably not River water. Had I been given that I could have torn my shackles clean off. When we pitched camp in the evenings I was given bread to eat. I was used to fasting and this fare suited me fine. The men left me alone and did not bother me much—just a little taunting in jest. Spat on the ground before me as they passed. They found me frightening and repulsive. A woman taller and stronger than them was not something they could tolerate.

  One day a solitary rider arrived from the south. The scouts had heard word of his arrival, so he was given free passage through to the captain. We set up camp for the night shortly after, earlier than usual. I paid close attention to the organization of the troops. There were always three scouts when we were on the move, one ahead, one behind and one to the south. At night armed guards kept watch in three shifts. Two men guarded the horses, provisions and me. At night I was chained by my hands and feet so I could not run away. The locks and chains were of good quality. Removing them was not an option. But they allowed me a certain mobility, and if I could just sneak away or overpower the guards I could get out. I had no interest in running away. But I did want to kill the captain.

  The guards were well trained and gave me no opportunity. They did not sleep at their posts, they hardly spoke to each other and were constantly alert. These were men who were under tight control. I never heard them talk about their leader. Not a word. Neither did they ever complain.

  The next day we started early, while the dew was still on the grass. Its wetness refreshed my feet. We had come up high among the hills now. I heard the white herons call. The white herons are the guardians of the Lake of Sorrow. It is said that their feathers bestow good luck and fortune. But I know there is no such thing as luck.

  They were a sign that the lake was near. It is a sacred place. A place one must not approach indifferently or without cause.

  As the men leading the horses drove on, we soon came over the final crest that revealed the clear, cold water of the Lake of Sorrow. It is not a large lake, but it is deep, and none know what its depths may conceal. None save the herons. The top of the mountains beyond the lake were dazzling-white against the clear spring sky. The sky was never so boundless and clear in the valley below.

  To our left was the River. The captain ordered his men to set up camp, his voice echoing in the stillness over the lake. The herons on the far side of the water lifted their heads to observe us. The captain himself came riding over to me. His jacket was as blue as the sky. His eyes as cold as the water. Without a word he untied my chain from the packhorse’s saddle and rode away with it in his hand. His steed was a sprightly one and I stumbled and fell. Three other horses were accompanying his, but I could not see their riders; I had to keep my eyes on the ground beneath my feet. He steered straight ahead to the point where the River flowed out from the lake. He should do it now, at once, and not waste time.

  I collapsed to the ground when he reined in his horse. Men dismounted. Boots stamped around me. Then a hand appeared and pulled my head up by the hair.

  “I thought I would n
eed you to disempower the river,” said the captain. “Now that does not appear to be necessary.” He was squatting beside me and leaning over me. He lowered his voice. “I have scriptures, you see. I have gathered knowledge from all corners of the earth. My son brought the most important one here to me. It tells of places like your river. I know more about the earth’s sources of power than anybody. Most people believe they are no more than legends and tales from the olden days. But I know that they are absolutely real. And you know it too.” He laughed quietly with his face close to mine. His eyes were large and his pupils covered his irises nearly completely. The River inside me was fighting against the power inside him.

  “Soon they shall be just that: legends and tales. For I have discovered the key to their undoing and I mean to eradicate them, one by one. What do you imagine might be necessary to strip a place of its power, little warrior?”

  I moistened my lips, not in preparation to answer, but rather to buy time. My hands were free. I pretended to fall down to the ground. When he moved his hand to get a better grip of my hair I lunged at him. My hands closed around his throat. I have strong hands. River-strong. I squeezed with all of my might.

  The captain smiled. “No,” he said, and my grip immediately loosened. Someone was there at once with a sword to my throat. The captain released me and stood up.

  “Bring her here,” he said over his shoulder. The swordsman took hold of my shirt and dragged me across the ground to the River’s shore. She was not large at her source. Several small streams from these mountains and hills fed into her flow, but the Lake of Sorrow was her greatest supply. It was the origin of her power, though the same power did not live within the lake itself.

  They stood there, the captain and his little son—a boy with the same weak chin as his father. The swordsman threw me down by the captain’s feet. My neck was bleeding and stinging where the sword had pierced my skin. The blood dripped slowly on the ground by my River. She was singing. My blood sang in response. Around me men were standing on sacred ground bearing arms and steel.

  “All that is needed,” said the captain quietly to himself, “is a foreign oaki. Then the river is no longer itself. Fortunately, I have precisely the thing.”

  He untied a wineskin from his belt and shook it. “There is enough left. Good.”

  He removed the stopper and poured its contents, which looked like clear water, into the River.

  The herons took flight at once with a collective shriek; dozens of giant birds’ wings beat the air. I leapt into the water. He let go of my chain and let me fall. The water engulfed me. The water I had swum in and drunk from so many times. But now it was not the same. This was normal, ice-cold river water. The River, my mother, my everything, was no longer there. Without a struggle or farewell the spirit of the River had disappeared.

  Without her I was nothing, and had no protection. Everything flooded into me at once and my world was enveloped in darkness.

  Black. Convulsions in my body. Head heavy, filled with blood. The smell of horses in my nostrils. Mouth dry, lips cracked.

  Bound to the back of a horse. Army sounds around me: boots, the clatter of weapons. I opened my eyes to the sight of a brown horse’s flank, glimpses of grass, dust thrown up by thousands of pairs of feet. I shut my eyes again, and let the darkness take me.

  Water. Clear and cold and commonplace. I tried to drink, but most of it spilt. As I tried to lift my head a hand supported me. I drank more. Tried to open my eyes, it was difficult. Saw nothing, was I blind? The water bowl was taken away. My head was lowered to the ground, the sound of light steps walking away. I lay there blinking. After a while I could discern a gleam of light. I still had my eyesight. I lay on the ground in a tent without lamps, but a little light seeped in from outside, maybe moonlight. It was night. I moved my arms, they were free. Around my throat I could still feel the collar and chain. My body was frail. All the strength the River had given me had disappeared. The protection also. I could not hear her murmur inside me, only the beat of my own human heart. And my breathing, shallow and weak.

  The quick steps returned and a small figure appeared in the tent. It was the child. He crouched down next to me and handed me a bowl. I was able to sit up by then, so I held the bowl in my own hands, and drank. Wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. He handed me a piece of bread. I took it and twisted it in my hands. It smelt of salt and sweat.

  “Why am I alive?”

  The child did not answer straight away.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was pensive. “I thought he would drown you in the river. But he had you fished out after watching you struggle for a long time. You looked dead. But Sonan said that your heart was beating. So Father ordered that you be lashed to a horse and taken along.”

  “Where?”

  “Home to Ohaddin.”

  “Southward.”

  “Mm.” He inspected me carefully. “You no longer have the power inside you. How does it feel?”

  I did not want to answer or even think about it. I tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it in my mouth. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. Now that I could see better I saw that this was the captain’s personal tent. I saw the child’s dark eyes sparkle in the sparse light, and white teeth in his half-open mouth as he watched my movements carefully.

  “Why did you come to these parts?”

  “Father needed more money. He has emptied his coffers with the expansion of the palace in Ohaddin and taxes can’t be raised any higher. He says he hasn’t the time for a labourer uprising.” The boy yawned and I wondered how late it was. And where the captain was. “There is woodland here with timber we do not have in Karenokoi. We took over some minor realms north of Karenokoi, to ensure their loyalty and to prevent them attacking when Father is occupied with other business. Then we marched to these lands, which we were told were uninhabited. We will ship the timber southward on the river to the sea, and then ship it farther and sell it where it fetches a good price. There is a silver mine here too. People appeared and fought back when we struck so Father killed them. They were in the way.”

  It was my River folk he spoke of. When the enemy attacked we defended ourselves. But when the attack proved to be insurmountable I ordered the survivors to flee and continued the fight alone.

  “So it was all for silver and gold? Your father is a greedy man.” I swallowed the last piece of bread. Licked the flour from my fingers. It tasted salty.

  “Yes, he is.” The child produced some dried fruits from a pocket and handed them to me absent-mindedly. I chewed on the hard morsels. “But not for silver or gold. He wants to rule. The silver and gold helps him to do that.”

  “Who does he want to rule over?”

  “Everything. Everyone.”

  The child had curled up under a blanket on the other side of the tent and gone to sleep. I ran my fingers along the length of my chain. Pulled it until I felt resistance. Then crept quietly, on all fours, holding the taut chain until I came to one of the tent poles. The chain was locked, and the lock was robust. The chain was too. I could have sawn off the tent pole, if I only had a tool to do so.

  The tent flap was lifted and more moonlight streamed in. I froze. I had not heard a thing. My formerly sharp senses were blunted and feeble. The captain made a quiet sound as he stepped into the tent.

  “The little warrior is certainly alive.” He let the tent flap fall and took a few steps into the tent. He lit an oil lamp, without haste, without worrying about turning his back to me. He was in no hurry. Once the lamp was lit he poured something into a bowl and sat down on a cushion. As he sipped the contents of the bowl he looked at me for the first time. His mouth was hidden behind the rim of the bowl. He studied me carefully, as if he had all the time in the world.

  I began to back into my corner.

  “I have been wondering why I spared your life.” He stroked his bearded chin. The child under the blanket stirred, disturbed by the sound of his voice.

  “I am a conqu
eror. I conquer areas, resources, populations. People and their minds. Do you know why I have the most disciplined army of the last hundred years? They fear me, little warrior, just as you fear me now.”

  I shrank my head down between my shoulders.

  “You did not fear me before. But you were mistaken, were you not? Everyone should fear me. Most do not know why, yet fear me anyway.” He stretched and yawned, suddenly bored. “It is almost too easy. I take what I want. Perhaps I shall see to it that my name receives the appendage ‘the Conqueror’.”

  He stood up and walked towards me. I tried to press myself into the ground, to make myself invisible. I have never been as afraid as I was in that moment. The River’s power had abandoned me, and stripped me of my defences. All the sensations I was previously able to hold back now filled me with such force that I could barely breathe. I did not fight back when he tore off my trousers.

  When he was finished he wiped himself off on my clothes. I shrank away with my arms around my head. Everything smelt of him.

  Before he extinguished the lamp I saw a movement in the corner of my eye, where I peeked out between my arms. It was the child turning away and pulling the cover over his head.

  After that the captain changed his manner towards me. He enjoyed subjecting me to ultimate humiliation. He used my blood for dark arts I know nothing about. I do not want to know.

  The child sometimes fetched water and bread for me at night.

  “What is your name?” he whispered once after his father was finished with me and had fallen asleep. He was sitting a little way from me, on account of the smell. I ate quickly, greedily. Before someone discovered us and took my bread from me.

  “Sulani.”

  The child hesitated a moment. I glanced at him. He was chewing his lip.

  “My name is Orano.”

  I had heard his name. His father used it. Yet he hesitated before pronouncing it.