Saturday, the Twelfth of October

by Norma Fox Mazer

  In her cave again, she built up her fire, warming and drying herself. Outside, rain splashed on the ground. She roasted the packets of spiders and pounded the tender cooked flesh into a gray mash. Just as the rains stopped, she carried the mash to Goah to pack into his wound. The boy lay on the family bed, his eyes as large as moons. His father and his brother were with him. At the first touch of the mash on his thumb, the boy cried out. His eyes filled with tears. He held out his hand to his father. “It burns me, it burns me. Father, she is burning me.”

  “Aii, Wai Wai, my son cries with pain,” Goah’s father exclaimed. There were tears in his eyes, too, as he comforted the boy.

  “Cry,” Diwera said to Goah. “Your tears will help the wound heal. New flesh will grow. Soon there will be no more pain.” She turned to Hakku. “Will you stay with your brother? When he cries from the burning, from the pain, take his other hand and press it between your hands. Then the pain will not be so bad.” She turned to go, then stopped. “Goah, Hakku. Listen to me. Do not ask again for Nii’uff.” She paused, then went on slowly, “Do not ask that girl, Meezzan, for anything. Do you hear what I say?”

  Goah nodded; he was in pain and asked no questions. But Hakku, who had been squatting near his brother, half stood up, saying, “My ears hear such a strange thing, Diwera. I would not ask again for Nii’uff! No! You can believe this. But my ears hear you saying not to ask that girl for anything. Diwera, what are you telling me and my brother?”

  “Do not ask,” she said. “I tell you, do not ask her for anything.” She walked out of the cave, ducking at the low entrance, her belly heavy, as though filled with stones. The goodness of asking one’s neighbor, friend, companion for what one wanted was a thing sucked in with mother’s milk. To ask was to receive, and to receive was to give. To give and to receive was life. And now she, Diwera, had told these boys never again to ask Meezzan for anything. Never before had such a thing been said by one of the People to another.

  Chapter 23

  Although the rains continued to fall, the time for the girls’ ceremony, the Sussuru, had come. In the forest, the red flowers gleamed mysteriously, tiny red blossoms underfoot everywhere on the dark forest floor. At night the new moon, too, had glowed faintly red.

  Now it was the dawn of the first day of the Sussuru. The rim of the sky was edged with pale green. Burrum’s breath puffed into the air as she put her arms around Meezzan and nuzzled her neck comfortingly. “Do not be sad without me, my sister. For one moon I will be gone. Then we will be together again.” Burrum was sorry to leave her friend behind, yet her sorrow was tinged with a piercing sweetness like the calls of birds at first light. Today was the first day of the Sussuru! How long Burrum had waited for this day, and now that it was here, how happy she was. So happy she wanted everyone else to be happy. She bit Meezzan’s neck affectionately, little tender bites like the ones her mother and father often placed on her arms and face before she went to sleep, remembering again how, so long ago, Miiawa had sent this daughter of Others to her. What a good thing that had been!

  A little gust of melancholy, like a ripple on a smooth river, snagged at Burrum’s happiness. Not everyone was as happy about Meezzan as Burrum. Some people muttered among themselves about Meezzan’s strange ways. They said she was not one of the People. Naturally, this was so! But they also said she might be a daughter of snakes and spirits who lived below the earth. They said she would bring misery and unhappiness to the People. They pointed to Goah’s thumb, which had healed but was as stiff as a piece of wood. And to old Nabrushi, who had never recovered from his fall. And to the rains that poured steadily even though this was the time of the Sussuru. For all these things they blamed Meezzan.

  Hearing such talk, Burrum was very angry. She did not believe such things, and neither did her mother, her father, or her aunts and uncles. Look how Hiffaru had Quarreled so well for her mother! Look how easily Ainu’s baby had been born! And was she not the most beautiful and strongest baby girl one had ever seen? And, above all, had not Burrum’s blood come down in time for the Sussuru? These were the good things that Meezzan had brought to Burrum’s family!

  But there were people—the children of Nabrushi, for instance, and the family of Goah—who said there was a cloud around Meezzan, a cloud one could not see but, nevertheless, was truly there. And in this cloud they said there were many bad things that were dropping down upon the People, one by one.

  Burrum stared into Meezzan’s face. “While I am gone, you stay here with my mother. Lishum will miss me. You be his sister while I am gone.’’ She rubbed Meezzan’s back once more, then turned away as Farwe called, “Come, daughter. Hurry.”

  Farwe plucked a smoldering brand from the fire.

  “Come, Burrum, come, girls of the Sussuru,” she cried, her voice ringing through the clear morning air. Soon the other girls and their mothers joined Farwe and Burrum. Em’Fadi, the quiet one, was there. Bahii, a small child; and Noomia and Naku, the sisters, husky girls with brisk manners. “Are all the girls of the Sussuru here?” Farwe asked. “Are all the mothers here?” But Em’Fadi’s mother was dead, so her aunt escorted her.

  “We’re here,” Noomia said, and her sister Naku added, “We’re ready!”

  “Then sing, girls of the Sussuru,” Em’Fadi’s aunt said, and she broke into song in which they all joined. Thus, singing, they filed down the mountain, passed through a meadow, and into a grove of tall white trees, like those trees in Miiawa’s grove. Set in the middle of these trees was the Sussuru hut, made of bark and branches with a narrow low entrance and a hole in the roof to let out the smoke of the fire. Farwe dug the torch into the ground, and the four women and five girls set to work repairing the damage wind and rain had done to the roof and the walls of the hut. Large fresh leaves were laid across the roof. Branches were woven into the walls and, inside, the floor was brushed clean of last year’s debris. Fresh beds of leaves and grass were laid for each girl, and in the center of the hut, the hearth was ringed by a newly laid circle of stones. Wood was gathered and stacked for the fire. The girls and their mothers laughed and talked as they worked, stopping often to eat fruit and nuts. Hie mothers were solicitous, for they knew what lay ahead for their daughters. “Have more fruit, daughter,” Ahera, the mother of the little Bahii, urged. “Come, eat this sweet fruit, so your belly will not be hungry tonight.”

  At last all was done. The torch passed from the hand of one mother to the other. Farwe, reclaiming it, touched the glowing tip to the kindling and the fire blazed up. “Remember, the fire must not die,” Farwe chanted. “The fire must burn day and night. If this fire dies, the moon will fall from the sky. Daughters! Do not forget the fire!”

  The women gathered near the entrance to the little hut with last-minute admonitions. “You must not talk.”

  “You must stay by the fire without speaking.”

  “Daughters, above all, don’t cry, don’t weep. Otherwise you will die young.”

  “Yes, yes, we hear you, mothers,” Noomia and Naku cried together.

  The girls were eager to be left alone. Only Bahii, whose blood had come very young, looked sad to see her mother leaving. Burrum put her arm around the child and led her to the fire. The girls looked at one another and smiled. Now they must not talk again for a very long time.

  That night they slept only in snatches, all of them sitting up to be sure the fire didn’t go out. Outside their hut they heard the sounds of night: leaves rustling, wind in the trees, animals prowling; mysterious and terrifying sounds. Not one of the girls had ever before spent a night away from the warmth and comfort of parents and relatives. In the light of the fire the girls looked at each other’s shadowed face, eyes glistening and large, and thought of the spirits who wandered in the night, of the Anouch’i, and of Tariana with eyes of fire. But no one said anything. They must not cry, they must not fear; they would soon be women and had to be brave. The child, Bahii, huddled tightly against Burrum, but even she did not so much as whimper.

>   Their first day alone they ate nothing.

  On the second day they drank only water. Their mothers prowled outside the hut, calling to them, “Are you guarding that fire? Don’t you see the sky is darkening? Build up the fire, daughters!” Wood was shoved inside the hut, but none of the girls answered the calls, or gave thanks for the wood. They were hungry and tired and didn’t smile as often. That night they took turns staying up to tend the fire. Noomia and Naku took their turns together.

  The next day fruit was left inside the hut, but not enough to satisfy their hunger. They left the hut only briefly, one at a time, careful that no men or boys were about, for if now they looked at men, forever after their legs would tremble when they climbed trees.

  Each day the mothers left a bit of fruit, just enough for a few bites for each girl. Each day their mothers called to them from outside the hut, teasing them, taunting, and testing. “Daughters! The moon is fleeing the sky. What! Have you let that fire die?” But the girls were brave and proud and didn’t answer, although their bellies longed for the comfort of their mothers’ arms and their mothers’ voices. Yes, they longed for that, but none of them, not even little Bahii, gave way to her longing and crept outside to her mother. No one spoke. No one cried. Burrum stroked Bahii’s arms and smiled at the child to give her courage. Noomia and Naku tended the fire, carefully rationing the wood.

  The girls lay on their beds with their faces on their arms, or sat around the hearth poking at the embers, watching the sparks fly up through the hole in the roof. Once each day they shared the fruit, eating it slowly, tasting the sweetness on their tongues and then in their throats.

  The days passed slowly into the nights, and the nights again into the days. Each morning and each afternoon the girls heard the rain on their little roof of leaves and looked at one another, and sighed, and smiled, and threw wood into the fire. Ah, how good the fire was when it rained, yet they could not speak of it. Sometimes they put their arms around one another, leaned their heads together, and dreamed silently. They had dreams while they slept and dreams while they were awake.

  The quiet Em’Fadi cried out many times in her dream-filled sleep. “Mother! Mother!” she cried. Each one of the other girls, awakened, felt Em’Fadi’s orphaned cry as if it were her own. “Mother,” Em’Fadi cried again. Bahii, grinding her teeth against tears, crawled over to Burrum and locked her arms tightly around her neck. Burrum, without speaking, stroked the child’s back over and over.

  Burrum dreamed many dreams. She dreamed of her mother’s mother’s mother who had come to this very Sussuru hut, and of all the girls before her who had crouched by the Sussuru fire. She sensed their presence in the fire and in the air and in the earth beneath her feet. She felt the unnumbered generations of girls before her, of mothers, entering her body, becoming part of her as she was part of them. This is what it means to be a woman.

  She dreamed other things, as well. She dreamed of a butterfly lighting on her shoulder and speaking in her ear. As she dreamed, she did not know if she was the butterfly or the butterfly was her. She dreamed that she swallowed a stone that began at once to move in her belly like a child. She held her belly tenderly and thought, This is what it means to be a woman. While she slept she dreamed, and while she sat before the fire she dreamed. Strange and beautiful dreams such as she would never dream again: of rivers and birds, of fruit and bears, of mothers and great trees that reached into the sky and down into the earth.

  And she dreamed, too, of Meezzan who smiled at her and said, “Yes, you are my sister,” but even as she spoke, Meezzan became a green frog sitting on many poisonous white eggs. And this frog, Meezzan, still spoke, saying, “Sister, sister, I have here something delicious for you.” She showed Burrum the poisonous white eggs and shoved them with her bent frog’s legs toward Burrum’s mouth. Burrum leaped back and woke with such a shout of fear that Bahii leaned toward her and anxiously stroked her face. All that day, Burrum could not forget that dream. The green frog, Meezzan, and the poisonous white eggs. Aii, her stomach ached with this dream!

  One evening, the mothers came into the hut, saying, “Daughters, it is time. The new moon is here!” The girls thought this was another test of their strength and turned their heads and refused to answer. Laughing, Farwe and Ahera and the other women took their daughters by the arms and led them outside. “Look up. The new moon has come!” Raising her eyes, Burrum saw the thin young moon, like a baby’s new tooth. “Now you may talk,” Farwe said, “but softly, daughter, softly at first.”

  “Mother, I had so many dreams!”

  “Yes, yes, I, too, had dreams. Aii,” Farwe sighed, “that is such a long time ago, but I still remember my dreams. Yes, such dreams! Such dreams.” She took her daughter inside the hut and walked her around the fire. The other mothers did the same with their daughters. Then they told the girls to sleep one more night in the hut with the fire burning.

  In the morning the mothers were there again to take their daughters into the forest to adorn them. All day they worked. They squeezed the red juice from Urucuru seeds and dipped little leaf brushes into the juice and drew designs on their daughters’ bodies: wavy lines like water on their breasts, circles like the sun on their arms, tiny fish on their bellies, and the crescent of the new moon on their backs and legs. They picked curly young Bassai leaves and tied them in bunches below the girls’ knees and around their arms, ankles, necks, and waists. They put clusters of the red flowers of Miiawa into their hair, behind their ears, and tucked into their mingaus. At last, toward dusk, the mothers were satisfied and following their daughters in single file, they went back up the mountain to the caves, where the fires were burning. There everyone waited to see how beautiful the girls looked, how proudly they walked, how happy they were that they had been strong, that they had fasted and dreamed and were no longer girls, but women.

  As they moved along the path, from deep in the forest came a long haunting call like a cry torn from a throat aching with pain and loss. The girls looked at each other, their eyes widening. “Menari!” they whispered. The secret Menari, an instrument known only to a few chosen women, its voice heard only at the time of the Sussuru. Hidden in the forest, it called and called, its voice like the wind in the soft wet evening.

  Chapter 24

  From new moon to new moon, for twenty-eight days, Zan had been without Burrum. Once she had followed Farwe and heard her and the other women call out to the girls inside the little hut. She had listened to the women’s admonitions and felt a strange delight at the girls’ silence. But afterward she had felt lonelier than ever to think that Burrum was inside that hut with four other girls, while she was outside.

  The rains had come every day, and for the most part she had stayed close to the cave and the family, sleeping, watching Ainu’s new baby for long peaceful hours, and playing with Lishum. She became very close to the little boy. In the mornings, he went with her to the river to wash, and together they picked fruit and brought wood for the fires. Seeing the two of them with one another so often, Sonte teased, “Who is that man with you, Meezzan? Who is that strong man with the deep voice?”

  Lishum wrapped his arms around Zan’s legs, “Sonte! Listen to me. Listen to me! When I grow up, I will be Meezzan’s man.”

  Slapping his thighs in glee, Sonte cried, “Yes, I hear you. Now let me hear you sing the men’s songs, little man!” Everyone around laughed. But, unruffled, Lishum continued to go wherever Zan went. Only when she went to Meadow-with-Watering-Hole did she slip away alone.

  She still made regular visits to the meadow. She had left her clothes hidden in a hollow tree near the boulder and always put them on at once. Sometimes she wore the little bark bag with her objects, other times she left it in the cave in its niche. But at least once every day she took out the button, key, safety pin, and knife and arranged them in the triangular pattern, whispering to herself, “I am Zan Ford.”

  Since the day when Goah had cut himself, she had been adamant about not letting an
yone near any of her things, especially the knife. She no longer played games with the knife, or cared to impress anyone with it. In the beginning it had been safety (she thought); then, seeing the awe it engendered, she had used it, half knowing that it protected her sense of superiority. Now she used it only to cut fruit, or her hair, or sometimes to idly whittle a stick.

  Faithfully, she made the scratches in her calendars. She already had five pieces of wood thick with slashed marks that added up to more than forty-one weeks. Burrum’s aunts were puzzled by her calendars. They often picked up one of the pieces of wood and drew their fingers over the six little marks slashed across by a seventh. Zan had been unable to explain a week. The People had no names for days, neither did they count beyond raising their fingers. Yet each woman kept a lunar calendar, and Ainu had noted the moons of her pregnancy by stringing a pierced shell for each moon on a bracelet she wore until the birth of the child. (Only two days before the child was born, she had, with perfect assurance, gone about making her birthing bed.)

  One day at the river, Zan stared for a long time at her reflection—Meezzan. Half naked, barefooted. Hair tangled. The thick, crowded marks on her calendar marched through her mind. Would she still be here when the Sussuru was held again? Ainu believed she would be. Earlier, seeing that Meezzan missed Burrum and felt unsettled, Ainu had said, “Meezzan, calm your belly! The Sussuru comes to all girls, your turn will come also.” And laughing one of her big, comfortable laughs, she had added, “I will be your mother for your Sussuru.”

  “Ainu, you are good!” Zan had said, pinching Ainu’s arm affectionately. It was true that she would have been happy to be part of the Sussuru. She had wondered so often, with a tinge of envy, what Burrum was thinking and doing in the little hut. Every night, Zan had looked at the moon; she had watched it wax, grow full and beautiful, slowly wane, then disappear altogether for two nights, till at last the little new moon showed itself again, pale and fresh. Then she knew that the Sussuru month was over.