by Paula Volsky
She hesitated and heard Girays say in a low tone, “I’ll go before you. If you slip, I’ll be there.” Classic formerly-Exalted gallantry, and once again she found herself appreciating it, paternalism and all. Without awaiting reply he grasped the rope, swung himself over the rail, and descended ably. An alien hand pressing the small of her back urged her on, and she followed Girays. The Bizaqhi divided skirt simplified matters. She climbed down easily, sliding from knot to knot until her feet hit the logs of the roughly constructed Ygahri raft. Oonuvu and his companions came after. The flick of a tattooed wrist sent a wave along the rope, and the grappling hook tumbled from the rail. One of the tribesmen took up a great staff and poled for the shore.
Luzelle’s eyes rose to the Water Sprite, whose crew and passengers clustered at the stern. They were watching intently, doubtless alarmed and mystified as she. It crossed her mind then that she and Girays might leap from the raft to swim for the packet, there to find sanctuary and relative safety in numbers. Then she thought of Porb Jil Liskjil and his armor plating of beetles in the water, and the impulse died.
The raft bumped land, and the natives herded their captives ashore. A gap in the undergrowth offered access to a narrow trail leading off into the forest. The tribesmen made for the gap and Luzelle balked. Oonuvu drew his knife, and her feet began to move again. She cast one longing glance back over her shoulder at the stationary Water Sprite, then the river was gone and the jungle was all around her.
They walked in single file, Ygahris at the front and rear, Vonahrish prisoners sandwiched in between. Lush high greenery enclosed the trail, crowding in so hard and close that Luzelle could not avoid brushing gigantic, saw-edged leaves as she passed. Each time she touched one, the clinging water spattered off in showers and soon she was dampened from head to foot. But the native tribesmen somehow managed to advance without dislodging a single drop, and without ever stumbling over the innumerable creepers and exposed roots snaking across their path. The dark soil underfoot was soft with moss and perennially moist. The air smelled of astringent leaves and excessively sweet flowers, exotic fungi and water scum, burgeoning life and decay. They marched for an hour and a half or more along the trail, and a new odor weighted the dense atmosphere—smoke. Cooking fires? On they went, the smoke scent sharpening in their nostrils, until the trail abruptly concluded and the world expanded around them.
They had come to a clearing containing a collection of frame huts with walls of woven branches and thatching of palm leaves. The corner posts of each hut were carved and painted in a style familiar to Luzelle, who had seen such posts supporting the dwellings of the Bhomiri Islanders. An emblem of serpentine intertwining human spinal columns crowned the entrance to the largest hut. A somewhat similar emblem decorated the lodge of the tl’gh-tiz of the Bhomiri-D’tals. Had she accepted the position of junior wife number thirteen, she would have been expected to wash and polish the bones every day. At the center of the clearing yawned a great fire pit. An immense iron spit rested upon twin cleft posts above the pit. The cannibalistic Bhomiri-D’tals possessed and greatly prized just such a spit.
A number of women and girl-children sat before their huts, grating edible roots or pounding out fibrous stalks on flat stones. Small naked boys romped and wrestled about the fire pit. There were not many men in evidence, and the few present were bent and wrinkled with age. Probably most of the younger ones were off gloating over the trapped Water Sprite.
As the four Ygahris and the two foreigners walked into the clearing, the attention of the residents instantly focused. The children came racing for a closer look, followed at a more dignified pace by their elders. Within seconds the new arrivals were heavily surrounded.
The tattooed faces revealed nothing. The slanting black eyes were opaque. Even the children were unfathomable, Luzelle decided. Well, perhaps not entirely. Some of the youngest ones projected a certain pleased excitement, together with a curiosity that seemed to fasten with particular intensity upon her red-gold curls. Probably they had never seen a western woman before. More than one small copper hand reached out to touch her, and Oonuvu, who walked too close upon her heels, slapped the straying hands aside with a proprietary air that boded ill.
Straight across the clearing they marched to the dwelling marked with the spinal emblem, where they ranged themselves before the doorway, foreigners flanked by natives. One of the Blessed Tribesmen called out something that might have been a name or a title. A moment later a grizzled Ygahri of middle years emerged from the hut. Like the others of his tribe, both male and female, he wore no clothing beyond an abbreviated loincloth of woven fiber cloth. His body was heavily adorned with tattoos and raised scars, his hair elaborately braided and beaded, and he wore a large medallion of carven onyx that might or might not have indicated rank. A certain air of lofty dignity suggested high status.
A hush fell over the gathering. The headman spoke, his voice rising interrogatively. The largest member of Oonuvu’s party, presumably its leader, stepped forward and performed a gesture that lifted Luzelle’s eyebrows, for she recognized the hand-over-heart inclination of the head with which the Bhomiri-D’tals were wont to express respect.
The Blessed Tribesman spoke at some length. His words were unintelligible, but sometimes he pointed off in the direction of the river, sometimes his gestures encompassed the Vonahrish captives, and once or twice the twitch of a thumb seemed to single Oonuvu out for special recognition. Clearly a report or explanation was being offered.
The headman addressed Oonuvu, who responded with a spate of rapid commentary. His head was high and his chest swelled victoriously as he spoke. At the close of his oration he lifted a strand of Luzelle’s streaming hair and laid his free hand on his groin. Releasing the hair, he jerked his head at Girays, then turned and pointed across the clearing at the great iron spit spanning the fire pit.
Not a muscle in Girays’s face moved, but Luzelle stood close beside him and saw that he had gone white under his tan. She noted the headman’s attitude of grave deliberation, and her own flesh went cold. She glanced down and saw that her hands were shaking shamefully, which she could not allow because she intended to emulate Girays, who scorned to display fear before these people. She wondered what to do about her hands, and the answer was unexpectedly clear in her mind.
Stepping forward, she pressed her right palm firmly to her heart and bowed her head in the Bhomiri-D’tal gesture of respect that seemed to serve a corresponding function among the Blessed Tribesmen. The headman studied her inscrutably. Oonuvu grasped her arm and yanked peremptorily. Girays immediately leveled a blow that sent the Ygahri boy sprawling. Oonuvu bounded to his feet, knife in hand and white teeth bared.
A sharp hiss from the headman halted the fight. He spoke, and Oonuvu reluctantly sheathed his knife.
Luzelle repeated the gesture of respect, recapturing the headman’s attention. Looking straight into his eyes, she spread her empty hands, palms upturned, touched the fingertips of both hands to her heart, her lips, and her forehead, then ceremoniously allowed her hands to sink back to her sides. She could only hope that this ancient salute, imbued with an almost sacred force among the Bhomiri D’tals, possessed some similar significance among the Ygahris, but it was impossible to judge, for the headman’s face was utterly expressionless. Perhaps he had no idea what she was doing, perhaps he took her for a madwoman given to senseless gesticulation. He was staring at her, and so was everyone else present, but the faces and eyes communicated nothing.
She repeated the salute, and this time spoke the time-honored phrase that always accompanied the gestures. The Bhomiri words could mean nothing to the Blessed Tribesmen, but they were traditional, and she could not omit them.
“I am a stranger come in friendship,” Luzelle intoned, stumbling only slightly over the spiky Bhomiri syllables. “In the name of the gods and by Their will, I claim your hospitality.”
Still no reaction from the headman, only blank-faced silence, but a low muttering simmere
d among the observers, and her hands, which had steadied briefly, recommenced trembling. She clasped them firmly and waited with an appearance of composure, her eyes fixed on the headman’s face.
For an endless interval he studied her, and impassive though he was, she thought to glimpse something like astonishment in his eyes. At last he uttered some command that sent one of the women hurrying across the clearing to a hut whose ornate corner posts were studded with human and animal skulls painted with geometric designs in red and ocher. The messenger disappeared into the hut, then emerged moments later followed by a trio of white-haired shamans tattooed head to foot in red and ocher, masked in snakeskin, and crowned with towering headdresses built of human ribs.
The crowd parted deferentially, and the shamans advanced to take their place beside the headman, who pressed a hand to his heart and bowed his head in respect. Three sets of black eyes scrutinized Luzelle through the apertures in the snake-skin masks. One of the shamans addressed her and she could not understand the words, but guessed their purport.
Slowly and deliberately she performed the ancient gestures, and spoke aloud the ritual Bhomiri formula. “I am a stranger come in friendship. In the name of the gods and by Their will, I claim your hospitality.”
The three shamans whispered among themselves, then one said something to her. This time she had no idea at all what was meant or required, and she let her incomprehension show on her face. They whispered again, and one of them spoke up haltingly in Bhomiri dialect. His accent and pronunciation differed considerably from those of the island folk, yet the words were intelligible enough as he asked, “How do you know the Old Tongue?”
She stiffened, momentarily doubting her own senses. But there had been no mistake, the fantastic figure before her had uttered Bhomiri syllables. Concealing her astonishment, she replied in her own laborious version of the language, “I am friend of the People who talk this tongue all days.”
“What people?”
Luzelle frowned. The Bhomiri-D’tals’ name for themselves simply translated as “the People,” by which title they distinguished themselves from the various extratribal biped beasts and demons, deceptively humanoid in appearance but devoid of soul and therefore less than true men. But an answer was essential, and she essayed, “They are masters of great islands in the salt sea, far beyond the forests, in the west.”
“How do they know the Old Tongue?”
“Some say their fathers’ fathers set forth from the Forests of Oorex on rafts to follow the great River Ygah south to the salt sea.” Luzelle shrugged. “Or else it may be that the gods taught them.”
“They speak with the gods?”
“Their wise men are like the dutiful sons of the gods.”
“Their wise men teach you the will of the gods?”
“Yes. They teach that the gods punish those who break the sacred law of hospitality.”
The shamans conferred briefly in their own dialect, then one of the masked figures observed, “This man with you does not claim hospitality.”
“I claim for him. I have that right, I am his senior wife number one.”
“This man permits his wife to speak for him?”
“This day he must. He speaks many tongues, but knows not the Old Tongue.”
“What do you seek of the Blessed?”
“We ask the Blessed to help us on through the forests toward Jumo Towne. We must run fast.”
Following another whispered consultation with his confreres, one of the shamans spoke aloud and at some length in Ygahri. He addressed the headman, but his words were audible to all. Presumably he furnished explanation, but before he had finished speaking, Oonuvu raised an angry voice. The shaman listened, then informed Luzelle in Bhomiri, “The young Oonuvu, who is now a man, claims ownership of the two captives. He reminds us that they are property, unable to claim hospitality.”
“This is not so.” Luzelle contrived to appear mildly taken aback at the egregious unsoundness of the other’s reasoning. “If we are prisoners, there is no justice. We do not war with the Blessed Tribesmen, we are not enemies. We are not thieves, or murderers, or defilers of sacred things. We are peaceful travelers and we claim your hospitality in the name of the gods.”
Oonuvu spoke again, and the shaman translated, “It is said that you are friends of our foes, the grey Grewzians.”
“This is not so.” Luzelle shook her head firmly. “The grey Grewzians are enemies of our tribe, enemies of all tribes.”
The black eyes appraised her at length, then turned away. The whispering conference resumed. At its conclusion one of the shamans addressed the headman, who nodded once, and then the same masked figure translated for Luzelle, “The truth is unclear. We will ponder. You will wait.”
Luzelle wanted to argue and plead, but contained the impulse. Pressing one hand to her heart, she inclined her head. The headman issued an order and a gang of Blessed Tribesmen shepherded the captives across the clearing to an empty hut, pushed them inside, and shut the door.
The interior was dim and smoky. A hole in the roof admitted a little light. The small space was empty save for a fire-blackened circle of stones at the center and a couple of woven mats spread out on the packed dirt floor.
No sooner had the door closed behind them than Girays turned to her and asked, “What happened? What did you say to them? I thought you didn’t speak Ygahri.”
“I don’t.” She related the entire exchange with the shamans, not excluding her claim to the position of senior wife number one, to which he only remarked that it had very nearly been true. She then explained the nature and origin of her ability to converse with the tribal wise men who preserved knowledge of the Old Tongue, obsolete among the Blessed Tribesmen but still current among their distant cousins of the Bhomiri Islands.
Girays listened attentively until she had finished, and then said, “You seem to have some understanding of these people—what are they likely to do with us?”
“Well, if they’re like the Bhomiri-D’tals—and they do seem very like, in many ways—and they decide that we have a legitimate right to their hospitality, then they’ll do all in their power to help us. They’ll spare no effort or resource—if we are their guests.”
“And if we aren’t?”
She said nothing, and Girays nodded. For a while neither spoke, and during that time the murmur of Ygahri voices penetrating the flimsy walls told them that the hut was surrounded. Luzelle applied her eye to a small gap in one of the walls, and spied the muscular back of one of the armed tribesmen from the Blind Cripple boarding party standing before the door. Another was stationed nearby.
“I don’t suppose you have that gun of yours handy?” she asked without shifting her gaze.
“If I did, I’d have used it long ago.”
She turned away from the wall. Girays had seated himself on one of the woven mats. She went and sat down beside him.
“Have you any idea how long they’ll take?” he asked.
“No.”
They looked at each other, and for the second time that day he slid an arm around her shoulders. When he drew her near she did not resist, but let herself relax against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes shut. She felt inappropriately contented and safe. Her fears subsided as if quenched by drugs or sorcery, which was absurd, for the danger was close and real, but somehow did not seem so. She might almost have thought herself happy, and for a moment that happiness blended oddly with a pang of regret for all that might have been.
She lost track of time sitting there so close to him. She had no idea if they waited for minutes or for hours. She did not stir until she heard the door open and felt the influx of fresh air.
Luzelle opened her eyes. The three masked shamans stood before her. One of them bore a pair of identical covered baskets. Extending the baskets, he declared in Bhomiri, “The man will choose.”
Luzelle and Girays stood up, and the shaman repeated the command, adding, “The gods rule his hand.”
“He wants you to choose one of the baskets,” Luzelle answered. “I don’t know why.”
Girays pointed.
“Take it,” the shaman directed.
Luzelle translated, and Girays accepted one of the containers.
“He will draw forth the contents.”
Luzelle relayed the message. Lifting the cover, Girays reached into the basket to remove a fist-sized stone. The polished surface was black as despair, sparked with flecks of an almost incandescent crimson. Girays studied the sinister object for a moment, then politely returned it to its owner.
“The gods have spoken,” declared the shaman. Turning briefly to face the attentive Blessed Tribesmen gathered outside the hut, he held the stone aloft and spoke Ygahri in a carrying voice, then informed his Vonahrish listeners, “Their will is known. You are our guests.”
“Even so.” Luzelle bowed her head gravely. Catching Girays’s eye, she mouthed in silence, Guests.
“Lucky,” he replied aloud. “And if I’d chosen the other basket?”
The shaman seemed to understand the query. Lifting the cover, he tilted the rejected container a little to display the contents. Coiled at the bottom of the basket lay a bright turquoise snake with a triangular head and emerald markings.
“Wonderful color,” admired Luzelle.
“Isn’t it, though?” Girays studied the serpent with interest. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s an uaxhui—quite a rare and remarkable specimen. It’s one of the most poisonous creatures known to science. A single drop of its venom can kill a grown man within seconds. There is no known antidote.”
“Oh!” said Luzelle. She backed away.
“Come.” The shaman replaced the basket’s cover, hiding the uaxhui from view. “The gods favor you, but you do not belong to the forests, you are not meant to be here.” His companions murmured affirmatively. “We will give you food and speed you on your way.”
“We thank you in the name of the gods,” Luzelle returned. “You will guide us back to our boat?”