The heat and smoke stabbed into Zan’s eyes. She looked again and again at Lishum on the platform. Had he always been so small, so shrunken?
And still people crowded into the mourning chamber, crying and singing, pushing Zan back to the wall. Suddenly, a huge red fish leaped toward her, a fish from a dream, glittering mouth open, eyes bulging from his head. A cry caught in her throat. Behind the red fish, smaller fish, red and white, with fins like wings, swam toward her out of the dense smoke. She flung out her arms and sagged against the wall. The fish were painted. Above them birds were painted; beneath the fish, water. Zan rubbed her fingers over the wall. Fish painted over fish, birds over birds. Generations of fish and birds, faded, smoky, ancient beyond thought. Then, a half-lifesize figure. A female body with the head of a fish. Round breasts, arms upraised, legs bent at the knee. The fish’s head, wise and mysterious. The figure triumphantly dancing atop a mountain painted over the curves and bumps of the wall. Olima, Zan thought.
Burrum pulled her away from the wall into the center of the room, where the wispy-haired old man Toufa sat cross-legged, beating on a drum made from a giant turtle shell. Now there was nothing pathetic about him as he bent with dignity over the drum, bony shoulders curved, hands moving like dancers over the shell, eyes drawn deep into his head.
In the confined space, the mournful voices and the pulsing beat of the drum reverberated through Zan till she felt her body dissolving with grief. Burrum’s fingers dug into Zan’s arm. “When the Death Drum is quiet, when we have stopped singing our sorrow, when we have all left, then the Vulture with White Eyes will fly down through the ceiling and clean Lishum’s flesh so that Ta may go free.”
Zan’s throat ached. She remembered the time she had seen Lishum lying in the rain, laughing, simply laughing with joy as the rain poured down on him. And other times, when for long moments he had been deep-eyed and reflective, hanging onto his mother’s breasts or rubbing his cheeks against his father’s face.
Pressed on every side by the hot, quivering bodies of the mourners, with the smell of smoke and death in her nostrils, the drum beating in her ears, Zan felt raw and aching.
When at last they left Cave-of-No-Name and came out into the waning light of day, she was exhausted. In Farwe’s cave she lay down and fell into a stuporous sleep. Waking only moments later, she thought at once of Lishum. She turned her head. In a moment wouldn’t she see him, belly poked out, calling her? She staggered from the bed into the wet, soft evening. Were the vultures already tearing his flesh?
Under a tree, Burrum squatted, her face streaked with soot. Her uncle Keyria was tightly binding the base of her little finger on the left hand with a bit of vine. The finger was white, drained of blood.
“What is Keyria doing to you?” Zan said, squatting down next to Burrum.
“Put your finger here, niece,” said Keyria, pointing to a flat stone. Burrum laid her finger on the edge of the stone. With the flat of his hand, Keyria gave her a tremendous blow on the upper arm. “Now you will not feel it so much,” he said, and began sawing through Burrum’s finger with a sharp stone.
Horror sucked Zan hollow. She grabbed for Keyria’s arm, but Burrum stopped her.
“No! Meezzan, do not touch him.” Burrum’s lips were white, bloodless.
Keyria grunted as he pushed the cutting stone forcibly through flesh and bone. Without lifting his eyes, he said, “Meezzan, Nii’uff would be good for this.”
Zan moaned, a dry sickness in her mouth. Burrum’s eyes were glazed. She didn’t cry out. The severed finger dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound.
Keyria handed Burrum a clump of grass to put on the stump and told her to hold her hand up in the air. He stroked her hair and spoke to her in a soft voice. “Are you comfortable, niece? Do not walk around. I will bring you fruit to eat.” He picked up the finger and took it away.
Burrum looked at Zan. “Meezzan, do you not know? It is for my brother. Thus, I mourn him forever.”
Chapter 27
For hours that night Keyria played on his reed, a thin melancholy sliver of sound, and Raaniu, squatting before the fire, sang softly, almost to himself. Both Burrum and Farwe nursed mutilated hands.
It was very late before the family settled down to sleep. Raw with the pain of Lishum’s death and Burrum’s mutilation, Zan slept only fitfully, dreaming of stifling tunnels.
Waking before everyone, she at once felt Lishum’s absence. No matter that a dozen others slept on all sides of her. Lishum was gone, and the cave seemed empty. Zan crept out.
She went down to the river. The sky in the east was a clear green, in the west dark as crows’ wings. She ate berries and chewed a handful of sweet grass, then climbed a tree to look for a bird’s nest. A wind sprang up; far away rain marched across the valley. Holding onto the tree with both hands and rocking slowly, she thought of Lishum.
Then, from her perch she saw Diwera going into the forest and she remembered the Wai Wai’s terrible words. If the child dies, go away from the People. Leave us! Zan clapped her hands fiercely over her ears, but the words would not be blotted out. Climbing down from the tree, she hurried into the forest after Diwera. Pain and grief made her bold. She would make Diwera take back those words. She would meet Diwera’s eyes without flinching and tell her, Diwera, why do you blame me? I loved him too! You tell me to go away, but I have nowhere to go.
And Diwera would say, Of course I did not know what I said! I was full of grief myself. You loved him like a sister, everyone knows this. Those were foolish words I spoke!
As she set foot on the forest path, the rains came, splashing leaves, pounding the earth. Beneath the wind, the huge trees bent, groaning. Soon Zan was soaked. The wind and rain obscured all sound. Twice, three times, she called Diwera. “Diwera . . . wait . . . I must talk to you-ooo . . . ” Each time the wind swallowed her voice. Rain fell steadily on her head, mud splashed her legs, her hair stuck to her shoulders. Diwera moved at a fast, steady pace. Through the dim wet tangle of trees and vines, Zan barely kept the woman in sight But she was determined not to turn back.
Ahead of her, Diwera ran across a log bridging a swollen stream. By the time Zan had cautiously followed on the slippery log, Diwera was out of sight. Zan ran, stumbled, ran again, her face and arms whacked by wet branches. Far ahead, blurred, blending with the trees, she caught a glimpse of Diwera. She followed her into a field swaying with reeds growing high over her head. But she lost her again as the field gave way to dry soil and stubbles of grass pushing up through rocks and stones. She ran straight on anyway, leaping over stones. Abruptly she was standing on the rim of a ravine. Far below, the rain-swollen river boiled over rocks. On the other side of the ravine, the cliff wall was sheer, layers of rock exposed by the water that had gouged out the channel. “Diwera? Diwera!” Zan called into the rain and the pounding of the river. “Diwer-aaa!”
Below her, Diwera suddenly appeared, a tiny figure zigzagging down the cliff wall.
Crouching for balance, Zan began descending the ravine wall, slipping and sliding, clutching at plants to steady herself. She fell, picked herself up, went on, sliding the last few feet on her back. At the bottom of the ravine, ferns and creepers grew thickly along the banks. A series of stones resembling a natural bridge led to the middle of the river, where an enormous wedge of rock jutted high into the air. There, on top of the rock, Diwera stood, her back to Zan, arms upraised, braids streaming into the wind and the rain.
Standing on Asking Rock in Place-of-Fear, rain and wind blowing across her uplifted face, Diwera called on the spirits to help her in her troubled time. Had she offended the spirits? Neglected some promise made to Olima or Miiawa? Was this why they had sent Meezzan to the People? So that Lishum, a child, would be taken from them? So that the rains, unlike any within memory, would pour from the sky without cease? So that Nabrushi, that good old man, would become too fearful to leave his daughter’s cave?
The night before, Diwera had dreamed of three hills. The
sun set below one hill. The moon rose above the second hill. And from the third hill, the old Wai Wai, Yooria, spoke the name of Meezzan. Waking, hearing that name resound hollowly in her head, Diwera knew that all these bad things came from Meezzan and her powers. She knew that this day she would go to Place-of-Fear.
“Olima, mother of us all, answer me,” she implored, raising her wet face toward the east. Dimly, through the furious pounding of rain on water, and water on rock, she heard the spirits answer, “ . . . err meee.”
Once, long ago, she had come to Place-of-Fear with old Yooria. Here, no one but the Wai Wai dared come. Here, when all else failed, the Wai Wai came to call Olima and the spirits who lived in air and water. Always they answered in half-heard words, a mockery of one’s own voice, reminding one that there was no power as great as the power of the spirits, that the spirits spoke in their own time and in their own way.
“Your daughter calls you,” Diwera cried. “Speak to her. Tell her.”
“ . . . errr,” the spirits echoed from the corners of the ravine.
Diwera’s mind darted like a bird before a storm. Olima, what must I do about Meezzan? Why has there not been a girl I can touch and say, You will be the Wai Wai when I am gone, when my flesh is loosened and eaten by the vultures. Meezzan’s powers are so great. Show me a way to protect the People. Olima, send me a sign.
She looked up into the gray swirling sky, and then down into the angry waters. If a single bird flew across the sky, it would mean one thing. If the sky was darkened with birds, it would mean another thing. Fish breaking the water, frogs with yellow eyes, or a herd of Pinudri deer coming to drink—each of these things might guide and direct her thoughts. She saw nothing except rain gushing from the sky as if it would never stop.
“Olima!” she cried from the depths of her confusion and, crossing her arms over her breasts, she gripped herself in a frenzy of longing for life to go on as it always had. Closing her eyes, she again implored the spirits for a sign. All around her she felt their presence, behind her and over her, in the turbulent air and in the rushing waters. Oh, let them speak! She would listen and learn. She opened herself to the spirits and, in the midst of her reverie, through the sound of rain beating on stone and water, she felt them touch her on the shoulder. An ecstatic shudder passed through her body. Her lips moved in wordless thanks. That touch, like the wings of a great bird, carried her upward, up, up, up, up into the air where in a blinding vision she saw the whole world spread beneath her, forest and mountains, river and streams, the world of the People, the land below and the sky above, the stars and moon and sun all rising and falling . . .
Diwera . . .
Her name was being called by the spirits! Above the drumming of water came, “Diwera! Diwera!”
Opening her eyes, she saw Meezzan standing before her on Asking Rock, and her ecstatic vision was blotted out by a wave of terror. None but the Wai Wai could come to Place-of-Fear! Yet, here stood Meezzan. And nothing struck her down!
Diwera saw Meezzan’s lips move, she heard her voice say, “I followed you.” Her own lips felt numb, as if she had poisoned herself with raw Pana. How great must be the powers of Meezzan! Greater than Diwera had feared. Greater even than the powers of the spirits who lived in Place-of-Fear. A groan welled up from deep in Diwera’s belly.
Meezzan plucked hotly at her arm. Diwera’s eyes blurred; she trembled suddenly and was bathed in sweat as her head echoed with words and voices: the spirits were speaking to her, giving her the answers she had sought. Her mind was split as if by lightning and, at last, she understood everything. This Meezzan was not flesh and bone, not one who had come wailing bloody from between her mother’s legs, but a spirit sprung full-grown in the shape of a girl. A spirit come to challenge Diwera. The knowledge made Diwera gasp for breath as if her chest were being slowly crushed beneath a great rock.
“Go!” Diwera tremblingly commanded the Shape of Meezzan. “Go! I know what you are!” But the Shape went on breathing its hot breath and foul words into Diwera’s face. Then Diwera knew what she must do. Her flesh shrank from the Shape, but with a cry of mingled fear and defiance, she thrust it away from her, sending it toppling over Asking Rock and into the angry waters. The Shape of Meezzan cried out, but Diwera leaped onto the stepping stones and did not look back.
Chapter 28
The rushing waters tumbled Zan swiftly downstream as if she were a fallen twig. Sucked under, she struggled to the surface, choking and coughing, only to be scraped against a rock and pulled down under the water again. The river pounded, pulling her under, filling her eyes and mouth and lungs.
Going to drown. Die.
She clawed her way to the surface, gulped air, was pulled down again. The first numbing shock wore off. Her mind started working, giving her directions.
Don’t panic. Hold your breath . . . you’re going up . . . look for something to grab . . .
Surfacing, her head banged against the thick exposed root of a tree clinging to the ravine wall. She flung out her arms and embraced the root desperately. Half in, half out of the water, she had strength enough only to hang on. The river surged by, sucking greedily at her dangling legs. She pulled herself slowly along the root, inching toward the shore, where she fell on her belly.
Zan sat up, shaking. Clinging to bushes, half crawling, she made her way up the ravine wall. At the top she looked down at the river.
Blood trickled down her legs from scrapes and cuts. On her hip there was an egg-sized lump already turning blue. She scrubbed at a thin line of blood.
She pushed me in. Tried to drown me.
Keeping to the top of the cliff she walked back to the spot where she’d followed Diwera down into the ravine. She realized the rain had stopped. A fresh wind blew the sky clean. The sun sparkled off the big rock jutting out of water.
Pushed me in. Just shoved me. Backwards into the water.
She walked away. Thoughts came in chaotic waves, then receded, leaving her blank, only to rush in again. Wanted to kill me. Kill me? Unreal.
Why would anyone want to kill her? Yet she had been shoved into the water. Deliberately. The fact was there, inescapable.
“I might be dead now. I could have been drowned.” The sound of her own voice saying this inexplicable thing was too much. She couldn’t cope both with the enormity of what had happened and with finding her way back to the caves. She concentrated on the latter. She might have followed Diwera for an hour, or for two hours. She might have been in the water for five minutes, or for fifty minutes. It was impossible to know.
Doesn’t make any difference. Just get back to the caves.
She talked to herself about the path, which direction she ought to take, describing the field she had crossed and what she remembered of the forest trail. But as soon as she stopped talking, she began thinking about Diwera.
All the time she had been speaking to the woman, she had felt that Diwera didn’t really see her. Her eyes had been strange, glittering in a fixed way. And then she had shouted, “Go,” or “Go away,” or something like that, and before Zan could even take a step, she had shoved her into the river.
“She really did,” Zan said to herself. “She really did that.” Her throat ached. She longed for someone to hold her head and comfort her. Whenever Zan bruised herself, Farwe would say, “You poor child! You poor thing!” and hug her as if she were as small as Lishum.
Lishum. A chill shook her. She had forgotten. She sat down on the ground, her head against a tree, eyes closed, arms around herself. But she couldn’t rest. She saw Lishum’s body in the smoke-filled cave. Then Burrum’s bloody finger stump. And water, the horrible torrent rushing over her face, buffeting her as if she were a bit of debris.
Lishum was dead. And she might have been dead. An awful loneliness came over her. “Ohhh!” she cried. “Ohhh!” She needed to touch someone. She rocked herself back and forth, aching for the caves, for the fire, the jostling and laughter of the family.
She pushed on. The sun
was low in the sky. After a while, surprised and grateful, she realized that the afternoon rains hadn’t come. She thought she was moving in the right direction. How long had she been walking? She tried to think clearly. It seemed to her she ought to have been back at the caves by now. Was she walking in circles?
Scared, she sat down again to think. She must have slept. Perhaps she had slept the other time she rested, too. Confused and exhausted, she went on, stopping to eat some berries. She realized that she had eaten almost nothing all day. Birdcalls filled the air. The sun set. The sky darkened. Soon all light would be gone.
She moved on, knowing she ought to stop because she would never find her way in the dark. The moon rose, splashing the forest with light. Suddenly, among the rocks above her, as if framed in a window, she saw the profile of an animal with long tusks jutting down its upper jaw. The head, shining in the moonlight, was golden with tawny hair. The great cat puffed like an ox, now loudly, now softly. Zan leaped away in terror, ran down a slope and splashed across a stream. Completely out of breath, her sides aching, she pushed her trembling legs to the top of a hill.
Can’t go on. Exhausted. Stupid to keep looking for the caves.
She would sleep and go on in the morning. As she climbed a tree, ants stung her on one leg, then on the other, then on her foot. She tried to pick them off, but they stung her hands. She had stepped on a nest and they were coming out to sting her all over. She ran again, brushing off ants, letting her feet go where they would. Run all night. Run forever. Never stop.
She smelled smoke and ran harder. Smoke was curling into the moonlit night air. She heard voices, singing, people laughing. In a moment, she was on the path up the mountain. A crowd milled around Farwe’s fire. Diwera, too? Zan moved behind a tree, quiet, watching. She circled around and slipped unnoticed into the empty cave.
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