Saturday, the Twelfth of October

by Norma Fox Mazer

  Carved out of limestone thousands, or perhaps millions, of years ago by the river that now flowed far below them, most of the caves were large and spacious.

  But some were small, cozy, almost cramped. Some were entered by climbing up into them, some had sloping passageways that led downward to the main room. Some had thick inner walls with “windows” in them. Most extended deep into the heart of the mountain.

  One day, high on the mountain, as she and Burrum hurried for home at dusk, a long black stream of bats had suddenly flown out of an empty cave. Zan’s questions about the cave and about other empty caves were always shrugged off. Now, with Burrum away, she slipped off on her own, determined to satisfy her curiosity.

  Following a faint path, Zan picked her way up the mountain, alternately losing and finding her way again. Finally, she fixed a clump of trees in her mind as a reference point; she had a horror of getting lost. The wind blew the distant but comforting sound of voices toward her. When she found the bat cave entrance, she entered, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Underfoot there was a sudden scuttling, clicking murmur of many creatures. She moved forward, guiding herself with a hand against the wall. A salamander, glistening and slimy red, blinked from a damp recess. She continued slowly on, till gigantic blocks of stone barred her path—great square chunks that might have been hewed by giants. Long ago, the ceiling must have fallen in. Had people lived in the cave then? A family like Burrum’s? She thought of them sleeping . . . a child sucking its thumb . . . two sisters with their arms around one another . . . then, without warning, tons of stone raining down, crushing them to pulp. A chill climbed her back. She hurried out into the sun. The wind passed over her like water. She took a long deep breath of air into her lungs. Alive! She was alive!

  She went on, looking for another cave. At the crest of a hill, she stopped. All around her, hills rose and fell. Far below, the valley plunged away like a green horse. She heard nothing but the sleepy buzzing of insects and wind among the leaves. A sense of herself as insignificant, no more than a leaf on a tree, came over her. She wrapped her arms around herself. She missed Burrum.

  She walked beside a stream winding through a rocky bed. As she climbed higher the stream cut more deeply between its stony walls. The air cooled, fems and mosses grew thickly over the ledges of gray stone. Rounding a corner, she was suddenly confronted by a huge rock balanced on a high narrow pointed rock base. It rose perhaps twenty feet into the air and looked like nothing so much as an enormous stone mushroom made by a gigantic baby.

  Standing beneath this formidable stone sculpture, Zan again felt shaky, vulnerable. Softly, as if her footsteps might unbalance the great round cap and send it pitching down to crush her, she tiptoed away.

  She followed the stream until it ran straight into the mouth of a cave. Tall lacy fems and clumps of thick green moss grew luxuriantly around the entrance. She stepped into a room lit by the rays of the late afternoon sun, the near wall green with algae. Water dripped slowly from the ceiling high overhead, splashing onto the gravelly floor and into the stream. She ducked into a tunnel, walking hunched over, straightening, she found herself in a huge chamber lit by long streaks of light from openings in the distant ceiling. Stone stalagmites rose like cones of encrusted jewels from the floor and stalactites hung like frozen jeweled fingers from the ceiling. Zan was wildly excited by their beauty. She touched one of the delicate stone fingers, half expecting it to melt beneath her hand’s heat. The light streaking in through the ceiling made her think of cathedrals, churches, holy places.

  “Beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful.” The walls took her voice and bounced it back and forth. “. . . ul . . . ul . . . ull . . . ull ” For a moment the echo frightened her.

  The stream that flowed through the center of the room poured into a wall and disappeared. The room itself narrowed at one end to a low passage. Zan stuck her head into the tunneled darkness. She would have to crawl on hands and knees to explore farther. Then, behind her, there was a shout that echoed against the walls like thunder. She pulled out of the tunnel. A black shape, glowing around the edges, rushed toward her. She flung up her hands in fear.

  Then she saw that it was only Toufa, an old man with wisps of white hair all over his body and a wispy white beard. “I am Meezzan,” she said quickly, confused and shaken by the wild look in his eyes, thinking he was going to hit her, thinking that he didn’t remember her, he was so old. “Meezzan,” she said urgently. “Meezzan, I am in Farwe’s cave—”

  Paying no attention, he grasped her arm and pulled her out into the daylight, demanding to know what she was doing in Cave-of-No-Name.

  “I do not understand,” she said several times, wishing Burrum was with her to explain both to her and to the old man. “I was looking. I did not do anything bad.”

  “The bones are in there,” he said. “The bones are there!”

  She shook her head dumbly. Bones? She didn’t know what he was saying.

  “I am the Keeper. I keep the Death Dram and watch over the bones. I must know all who go here, all, all! Why did you go into this cave? My father was the Keeper, and my father’s father, and his father before him, and all my fathers. Their bones are there, as will be my bones. And your bones,” he added.

  Shivering, she looked at him mutely. She wanted him to let go of her. She couldn’t make sense of anything he said. His old man’s mouth was wobbling and his eyes were teary and faded with age. She felt a wrench of pity, of sorrow that she had upset him, for whatever reason. She wanted to say she was sorry, but realized she had never learned to say this. Perhaps there were no words for it? Then she remembered what Burrum sometimes said to her. She touched the old man’s arm, on which the blue veins stood out like brittle sticks. “Do not be angry with me,” she said.

  Then he let go of her arm, and she followed him meekly back along the path beside the stream, thinking that there were still many things about the People she didn’t know or understand. She thought of snakes, and Diwera, and dreams, and how Ainu had called her daughter of Others.

  That night, all these thoughts crowded in on her and she didn’t sleep well, but lay awake for a long time, staring over her folded arms into the starry night beyond the cave, thinking of her family.

  Chapter 19

  N’ati, the mother of Sonte, entered Diwera’s cave without greetings or a gift. Nevertheless, Diwera welcomed her calmly. “Sit by my hearth, N’ati. Come, the fire is warm.” When a visitor crossed one’s threshold, even if that visitor was panting, that was the time to offer hospitality. “I have only now cooked some of those fat white worms that live in the Enga nut,” Diwera went on cordially. “How happy I am that you have come in time to eat with me.” She pushed a worm-filled packet of singed leaves toward N’ati.

  “My stomach is full of fear now,” N’ati said. “There is no room for food.” Wearing no necklaces or armlets, scrawny and graceless, she pushed her finger stumps, the marks of her bereavement, through her hair, and rushed straight to the point. Her sister, Yano, whose belly was big with child, was in her time, but the child was stubborn and did not want to come. All through the night, Yano had been trying to push the baby out. Now the sun was high in the sky and still the child did not come. “My belly hurts for my sister. She is having pain, so much pain, she walks up and down, up and down, then squats down and screams. Everyone is very frightened. Come!” She seized Diwera’s arm. “You must come at once!”

  “This is not Yano’s first child,” Diwera said, rummaging among the roots and herbs on a ledge. She was quite sure the bitter Masi herb she had just found in the forest would do well for Yano. “Why are you so frightened?”

  “That other child died,” N’ati said, her face twisting. Wailing, she began to recount the unhappiness of that other birth and death. N’ati was older than Diwera and, therefore, Diwera kept her face smooth and did not interrupt. Perhaps Yano was having a difficult birth, but perhaps not so difficult as N’ati said. It could be that N’ati, guarding her sister too
well, wished Yano to have no pain at all. Was this not N’ati’s way?

  Once, long ago, N’ati had had a beautiful young man. N’ati loved Fusiawa so well that she did everything for him. She gave him fish and fruit; she dug the Tinitini tubers he especially liked, although she had to go far from the caves to find them. If he wanted, she would have gladly stuck her hand every day into a swarming beehive to bring him honey. As he didn’t have much to do to be well fed, Fusiawa grew plump and lethargic. N’ati’s old father, jealous and discontented at not being properly and respectfully cared for anymore, complained that if N’ati could, to spare Fusiawa a few steps, she would make his water for him.

  Shortly after Sonte was born, Fusiawa had been bitten by a snake. Perhaps he could have been saved, but he had grown so fat and lazy that without N’ati to tell him what to do (she was away, digging Tinitini for him) he did nothing. By the time she returned, he was stiff on the ground, his legs, arms, and head swollen like rotten fruit. When he died, N’ati, in her grief, insisted that two of her fingers be chopped off down to the base.

  Without Fusiawa to care for, N’ati turned her energy and jealous devotion upon the rest of her family—Sonte, her old father, her sisters and their men and children.

  Since Diwera’s son, Hiffaru, had been promised to Burrum, N’ati had been heard to speak Diwera’s name in anger. All this Diwera knew.

  “My sister Yano is crying,” N’ati said, grasping Diwera’s arm so hard that it was painful. “Do you not hear me? Why do you move so slowly? Come! Hurry! My sister needs you.”

  “Yes, I am coming,” Diwera said. “I want to find something else for Yano. Those stinging nettles to rub across her belly. I gathered them only yesterday.” N’ati, she thought, had surely spoiled her sister as she had spoiled her man. “Did you not give Yano a bit of Wapa wood between her teeth to help her with her pain?” Diwera asked.

  “Yes, yes, but she spits it out. She has so much pain she cannot keep it between her teeth. Come!”

  Holding the nettles, Diwera followed N’ati quickly down the path. If, indeed, Yano was in pain and need, then she must not delay.

  Yano had prepared her birthing spot near the river in a secluded place. Diwera approved of the place she had chosen. The child could be washed quickly when it came, and the cold water would make the infant cry out. There was nothing more satisfying than the first healthy scream of a newborn.

  There were a good number of women attending Yano, and a few men squatting silently beneath a tree, among them Yano’s man, Huopi. There was a fine bed of fresh grass laid down for Yano, but instead of squatting there, singing to her child to come into the world, Yano beat her head against a tree, moaning shamelessly. “The Wai Wai has come to help you,” N’ati said, plucking at her sister’s upraised arms. “Here is Diwera. Come, sister, come, Yano, turn your face. Speak to Diwera.”

  Diwera set down the bundle of nettles. She took Yano’s arm and led her to the bed of grass. Yano looked at Diwera with big, fearful eyes. She was dripping with sweat, and her skin was a poor color. Diwera spoke calmly and gave her the crushed Masi herb she had brought. It had a bitter taste and Yano screwed up her nose. “Eat it, chew it well, mix it with your saliva and swallow it slowly,” Diwera said, her voice dropping into a rhythmic, reassuring singsong. She gestured to the other women to come closer. They clustered around Yano, forming a wall.

  At Diwera’s direction they rubbed Yano’s arms and legs briskly, warming her flesh. Color slowly came up into Yano’s face. She finished the last of the crushed herb and seemed calmer. When she again began shouting as the infant pushed to get out, the women rubbed the stinging nettles across her swollen belly to draw away the pain.

  “Oooo! Oooo!” Yano screamed without shame. Chanting, they again drew the stinging nettles down across the tight flesh, calling on the pain to come out of Yano and into the nettles.

  Long before the sun was gone, a perfect boy child was born. The birth cord had been cut and tied, when someone noticed that the child wasn’t breathing. Diwera scooped the infant into her arms and sucked at his nostrils. A gush of liquid poured into her mouth. The child screwed up its face and cried, “Ahh. Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh,” making everyone laugh with pleasure. The men beat their hands against their thighs, and the father took the child into his arms, holding him up proudly.

  That evening, from all the caves, from up and down the mountain, people gathered around the fire outside N’ati’s cave to see the new infant. A large circle was drawn around the fire by the new father, who chanted as he dragged a stick through the earth. In this circle my son will live, and in this circle my son will die. Sun comes in the morning and Sun sleeps in the night. My son will live in this circle and Sun will rise for him. Moon comes in the evening and Moon sleeps in the day. My son will live in this circle and Moon will rise for him.

  Zan was there with Burrum’s family. The men sang, loudly, lustily, praising the new mother. As they sang, the child was passed from hand to hand, its thin limbs wavering in the air. Even Lishum held the infant for one moment, pressing his lips solemnly against the round forehead before passing the child to Zan. As she kissed the baby and handed him on to waiting arms, a chill of pleasure crept into her stomach.

  Later, the new father called on the women to sing. “Sing your songs, you women. We men will listen and leam them, and sing them, too!” This caused an outburst of delighted laughter. At that moment, turning to say something to Burrum, Zan saw Diwera in the crowd, staring straight at her.

  Unconsciously, Diwera clenched the fingers on one hand. For many moons she had been watching Meezzan, trying to understand, to penetrate the girl’s otherness. This Meezzan was strange. Different in her ways, different in her Ta. She moved like a child who hadn’t yet learned how the earth fits her feet. She knew nothing of what a person should know to live. She was different, too, in her flesh, bigger than others, with heavier bones. Her skin color was not pleasant and soft like good earth sifted through the fingers, but covered with those little spots that she named “frek’ulls.” She had them everywhere, on her back, her face, her arms. Yet, alarming as all that was, Diwera had at first sensed some purpose, like a bright fire, in the girl. She had thought perhaps the spirits called to the girl as they called to Diwera herself. She had even thought once of taking this girl to live in her cave to teach the ways of Miiawa and the forest. But she had counseled herself to move like the hawk, which flew so slowly, in circles, diving for its prey only when it was sure.

  So she had circled Meezzan, and watched, and waited. As the moons passed, doubt and fear grew in her belly and often awakened Diwera from sleep. At such times, looking over at the sleeping form of her daughter, Diwera would sigh deeply, her thoughts turning from Meezzan to herself as a girl, then again to her disappointment in her daughter, and at last again to Meezzan.

  Zan tried to stare back at Diwera, as if unaffected, unafraid. She wanted to say something brave and forthright Why do you look at me all the time? I don’t bother you. Why don’t you leave me alone! But under the impact of that steady, measuring brown gaze she was forced to look away, flushing hotly with a shame and fear she didn’t understand. And it came to her again, as it had before, that she was still a stranger in a strange land in a strange time.

  Chapter 20

  When the first pale loop of Fire Moon appeared in the night sky, Sonte, Goah and two other boys went to live by the river with nothing but a bit of fire. No one could approach them, not even their mothers. They were learning to be men and could eat only seeds and roots. They could not speak, cry, or make loud noises. They could, however, sing. Therefore, every day the men who had lived the longest and were most deeply respected went to the river where the boys had made a hearth for themselves. Standing hidden among a thicket of trees, they sang men’s songs. After each song, they waited for the boys to sing back to them. Cupping their ears, the old men would cry, “What is this? I cannot hear anything. Are those the voices of men, or the buzzing of insects? What! I am listenin
g for the men’s songs, but all I hear is the chatter of the Tan Tan bird, that foolish bird who can only say, tan, tan, tan, tan, tan, tan!”

  The boys would sing again, singly and together, at the top of their breath, carefully pronouncing the words. If they made mistakes, the old men would cry out, “Whose son is singing that way? Teach your tongue to sing those songs properly!” And they would walk back and forth among the trees, their hands clasped behind them, singing in their old men’s voices.

  When Fire Moon had grown fat and round, and the old men were satisfied that the boys knew the songs, they told the women, “Now it’s time for your sons to have honey.”

  The next morning, before dawn, Burrum and Zan joined the other women and girls and small children. “That honey tree is far away,” Burrum said, yawning, “and we want to get there when the bees are still drowsy. Then they are dull and forget how to fight.” The sky was dark. A few stars glinted silver. Mist wreathed the trees. N’ati led the way, holding a smoldering brand. “We will go now, to get honey for my son, Sonte, and for the others,” she said. “You, Lishum, you, Manawa, you other children, don’t go off the path.” Quietly, yawning, their breath steaming in the cool air, they filed down the mountain, stopping once to drink from a stream bubbling out of a mossy place.

  As the dark faded and morning light filtered into the forest, the children yawned less, let go of their mothers and sisters and ran back and forth along the straggling line. The women talked and laughed. Zan walked with Burrum and they, too, talked quietly of different things, of Lishum, of Meadow-with-Watering-Hole, where Zan still continued to go, and of the Sussuru, which was no longer so remote. Zan wondered again about the Sussuru, Miiawa’s Festival. Why was it so important? Why, whenever she spoke of it did Burrum’s face light up?

  The path wound uphill along a narrow stone ledge overgrown with stunted trees. They came across a huge peccary whose foot had been trapped between two stones. The piglike creature had probably died several days before. Its bloated body, the size of a bull, was a vile grayish green. “Oh, you of the first race, how ugly you smell,” Burrum shouted. She grabbed Zan’s hand and they ran past the corrupted animal, holding their breath and exploding into relieved laughter when they could no longer smell it.