Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  When the feasting was finished, a crowd of children dragged Gabriel over to the sleeping platform, gave him a bowl of thick black dye and a point of deer antler, and begged him to paint canoes on their clothes and to make his own sign. When finally they raced off, splattered with black dye and with Gabriel’s initials and wobbly canoes on their chests, their hero pulled on his boots and went outside to find Ashila.

  12

  PROPHECIES AND DESTINIES

  BEHIND THE SHINALI HOUSE he discovered the holes used for latrines concealed by a group of trees and, beyond that, a stone enclosure obviously used to shelter the sheep at night. Now the sheep were out on the plain, guarded by children. Each young shepherd carried a sling, and fired tiny stones to keep sheep from straying. Never striking the sheep, the pebbles hit the dirt beside the animal’s heads, startling them back toward the flock. Gabriel admired the shepherds’ skill.

  Close to the house, on the side nearer the farms, were vegetable gardens. Gabriel saw Ashila working there, beside the old woman he had seen her with after the canoeing. The woman was laughing to herself as she shuffled between the cabbages, and Gabriel realized that she was sick in her mind. Seeing Gabriel, Ashila stood up and came to meet him.

  “She’s in her own world,” Ashila explained, looking across to the old woman, still chuckling and talking to herself. “Her name’s Domi. She knows nothing in this world, except the garden. All times, she’s being with her children, though they’re dead.”

  “At least she’s happy,” said Gabriel, and Ashila nodded. He added, with regret in his voice, “I have to go home now; I’m sorry. My family needs me.”

  She looked disappointed, though she smiled. “I’m being sorry, too,” she said. “Will you be visiting us again?”

  “I don’t have to go back to the Citadel until the day after tomorrow. Could I come tomorrow? I could return Yeshi’s trousers.”

  “You are not needing a reason to come,” she said.

  Together they went into the house, and he got his damp trousers from the stick by the fire, then said good-bye to Oboth and other members of the clan. They urged him to stay longer, but when he said he had to go, they looked at his mourning bracelet and understood. Ashila walked with him to the edge of the Shinali land.

  “I wish we could have had more time to talk, you and I,” Gabriel said.

  “There’s a time for all things.”

  He wanted to tell her that there was no time—that these hours, and maybe an hour or two tomorrow, were all they had; but he could not.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “it’s not the longness of a time that matters, but the goodness in it. And your time here is good.”

  “It’s good for me, too,” he said. “I needed it. I needed your Shinali ways.”

  “Tell me on your ways, Gabriel. On your life. What it’s like to live Navoran.”

  So he did, and she listened, often laughing in amazement, sometimes putting her hand on his arm as a sign for him to stop and explain. Laughing and talking, their heads close, with Gabriel sometimes gesturing in signs, they came to the fence that bordered the first farm. Here the farmers had built a stone bridge across the river, for themselves and wagons to cross. Gabriel and Ashila were so intent on conversation, they did not notice at first that someone waited on the bridge. Then Gabriel looked up and saw Ferron. The keeper was wearing a hooded cloak, wrapped tight against the chill air, and he looked tense and agitated.

  “I was worried about you,” Ferron said angrily, striding down off the bridge and coming over to them. His sword, swinging at his side, glinted in the pale afternoon sun. “But I see my concern was unnecessary.”

  “This is Ashila,” said Gabriel, resenting Ferron’s attitude. “Ashila, this is my friend Ferron.”

  Ferron pushed back his hood and studied the young woman’s face. Her eyes still shone from laughter, and her cheeks were flushed. “Greetings, Ashila,” Ferron said. “You’ve obviously cared for him well. He looks happy enough, in spite of his grief.”

  Ashila did not know what to say to that, so she whispered good-bye and turned to go. Gabriel caught her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Does it matter when I come?”

  “All times, you are welcome,” she said, smiling again, though her eyes looked past him to Ferron and were wary.

  “I’ll come in the afternoon.”

  She nodded, and her fingers tightened briefly about his before they parted. He watched her go, walking quickly with that easy grace of hers, then he turned and began walking back to the farm with Ferron.

  “There was no need to come after me,” Gabriel said. “I was fine.”

  “Were you?” asked Ferron. “Why are you wearing Shinali pants?”

  “Mine got wet. I went canoeing.”

  “Good God, man!” cried Ferron. “We were watching the canoes! That ride was suicidal! Have you gone mad?” He glanced back at Ashila and muttered, “Don’t answer that.”

  “It was a race,” said Gabriel. “I was challenged by the chieftain’s son. I had to take part.”

  “And I have to look after you. I risk my own life to guard you against Jaganath. I don’t know why I bother, when you rush off and invite the Shinali to do the job for him.”

  “You’re going too far, Ferron.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  They walked for a while in silence, rapidly, then Ferron said: “You know you won’t ever see her again.”

  “I don’t need a lecture.”

  “Someone’s got to tell you. You’re making an idiot of yourself, Gabriel. You came here for your brother’s funeral, and you end up fooling around with a native girl. What is it between you and the Shinali? I bet it’s something to do with that damned amulet—”

  “Enough!” shouted Gabriel, gripping the front of Ferron’s cloak. “You’ve said enough!”

  Ferron shook him off, and they stood looking across the Shinali land, their breathing deep and their breath misty in the cold air.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ferron quietly. “I’m concerned, that’s all. I don’t want to drag you back to the Citadel lovesick.”

  “You won’t.”

  “That look you had when you said good-bye to her—it was just brotherly affection?”

  “Yes.”

  Ferron looked at him sideways, his green eyes dancing with humor. “You’re a bad liar, brother.”

  It was midafternoon when Gabriel visited the Shinali the next day. The children saw him coming and ran to meet him. The women, gathering in their washing from where they had spread it on the grass to dry, stood up and called greetings to him. There were no men about. As Gabriel passed the garden he noticed old Domi working alone there, laughing and chatting joyfully to her dead loved ones.

  Ashila was on the riverbank, placing fresh fish in the smokehouse the Navoran soldier had helped the Shinali build. It was like the smokehouses Gabriel had seen as a boy, on the beach near his father’s boats. Leaving her friends to finish the task, Ashila washed her hands in the river and came up to meet Gabriel. She pressed her hand against her own chest, then his. Then, laughing because they both moved at exactly the same moment to do it, they shook hands the Navoran way.

  “I’ve brought these back, for Yeshi,” he said, giving her the trousers.

  “He’ll be thanking you. Will you come and have a drink with us?”

  He wanted to spend all the time today alone with her, but knew nothing of Shinali traditions of hospitality or welcome, and was afraid of offending. So, accepting her offer, he followed her into the house. The older women had already boiled water and made their pungent herbal tea. They sat about the hearth and chatted to him while they drank, and if they spoke Shinali, Ashila interpreted. Sometimes Gabriel misunderstood and gave answers that sent them into peals of laughter. He laughed with them, feeling embarrassed but never humiliated, self-conscious because he was the only adult male present.

  “The men are in the forest, hunting deer,” an old woman explained. “Smoked
fish, we’re being tiring of it, after the snowtime. And all the old sheeps, we’ve eat.”

  “I told my mother about your smoked fish,” Gabriel said. “The farmers would like to trade, your fish for their goats. Soon they want to farm sheep and cattle. Maybe then you could trade for beef.” They looked bewildered, so he added, “Red meat, different from deer.”

  They talked of various foods, and the women explained what herbs they used and where they found them. Children brought some of the herbs to show him, tricking him into eating the bitterest leaves, and laughing at the faces he pulled. And all the time they touched his unfamiliar fine-woven shirt, and stroked his pale hair and skin.

  Afterward, when he and Ashila went outside again, she asked, “Would the champion like to come for a walk today? Or, if you’re thinking that’s too dull, we could take spears and hunt mountain lions.”

  “A walk with you sounds a high lot exciting,” he replied.

  A crowd of children begged and howled to come with them, but Ashila sent them back, promising to tell them stories that night if they were obedient. Reluctantly, the children stayed. Walking close to the river, Gabriel and Ashila set off toward the mountains. Again he was struck by her unaffected beauty and grace, and last night’s dreams paled in the light of her presence. He tried not to stare at her, concentrating instead on the view before them. Directly ahead, where the river cut through the ranges, was the gorge where the Taroth Fort had been built. Gabriel remembered the conversation at Jaganath’s house.

  “Does the Navoran army go through your land often?” he asked.

  “The last time was two summers past. They get prisoners from the Hena tribes, or the Igaal, on the far side of the mountains.”

  “Why didn’t those tribes sign a treaty, the way your people did?”

  “It would have been hard for them to sign a treaty; their tribes are too many, too . . .” She flung out her hand, as if scattering grain.

  “Widespread?” he suggested.

  “Yes. Too widespread. They’re nomads, following deer herds. They attacked us sometimes, for slaves. Warlike, they were. They attacked the Navorans too, so our storytellers say, while the stone city was being built. To stop them coming through the mountains, the Navorans made Taroth Fort. That was long time past, even before our chieftain, Oboth, was born.”

  “And your people—were they warlike?”

  “Not at first. We were fisherfolk, full of peace, and a great people. The coastlands were ours—all the land, this side of the mountains. The Navorans came, and for a time we lived together, our boats on the water side by side. And side by side we fought the Igaal and the Hena, before the fort was made. But the Navorans grew, became strong and too many, and wanted our waters and our lands for themselves. They broke holes in our fishing boats and sank them, and made life hard for us. Then we became warlike. Then we fought hard battles—for our waters, our land, and our lives. Oboth was a great warrior in those days, and he and the old ones, they still have the scars. But the Navorans killed many of us, and the ones left they beat back to this plain, to this last place before the mountains and the desert lands of our enemies. Trapped between two foes, we were. In the end we made peace with the Navorans and settled here by the river. The soldiers in Taroth Fort protected us from the Hena and Igaal, but also they watched us, like a lion watches the deer. We were never easy, under their eyes. After a time, they left the fort.”

  “Was that when you signed the treaty?”

  “The fort was empty three, maybe four summers, before we made the treaty. When I was being a little girl, Oboth signed it. It made strong our peace, and said forever we keep our land. But all we have now is this plain, and our people are not great anymore. We become less and less. Eight winters past there was a bad sickness. It came soon after the Navoran trader came. It killed nearly us all who were left. Now there are only ten times ten of us. That’s how many the soldier counted. Since, some have died, some been born. One houseful now, that’s all.”

  “That sickness must have been the bulai fever. The trader should have known better than to come here, with the disease in Navora. What was he trading?”

  “Blankets, for smoked fish. He had his family, old ones and children. He was going on a journey, he said, far and far from the city. He didn’t say things on the fever.”

  “Was he the only one who crossed your plain?”

  “No. There was a high lot of them, but they didn’t visit us. Most stayed on the old road, where you ran yesterday. They were going over the mountains.”

  “There’s no fever now,” he said, “but it comes every six or seven years and is due again. If you see many people leaving Navora, don’t have anything to do with them.”

  “This fever,” she said, “what are its signs?”

  “I’ve never seen it. But Salverion, my teacher, says it looks like other sicknesses, and is very hard to recognize. That’s why it’s often widespread before it’s found. The only symptom that gives the plague away is gray patches deep in the back of the throat. Once you see those, you know it’s bulai fever.”

  “How does it spread?”

  “Very quickly, in the spit and in the blood, and it always kills.”

  “One man killed nearly all our people?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t really know. But it seems that way.”

  “Just as well our house is being in the middle of the grasslands,” she said. “It’s a long way to spit, even for a Navoran.”

  They laughed, then walked in silence for a while, looking at the savage ravines and snowy peaks ahead. In the gorge dividing the ranges, the ancient fort looked huge and impressive, its sheer walls the same tawny color as the mountain rock. As he looked at it, Gabriel asked, “Where would your people go, Ashila, if you didn’t have the plain?”

  She shrugged. “The mountains are too hard and dry. Not good for farming or growing vegetables. And the Hena and Igaal are still unfriendly. Yet there are old prophecies that say time to come we’ll leave our land and go to the lands of the Igaal and Hena, and become one with them, and make a great nation again. The old prophets said other things, too.”

  “Can you tell me what those things are?”

  She thought before answering, not wanting to offend him. “The prophets say Navora will rot from the inside, like a tree with a worm in it. Not all of it will rot. But the part that does, that has no strongness, will be cut down by the new Shinali nation. We’ll wipe the Navoran city into the sea and take back the lands that were ours. But one part of the Navoran tree will remain, a good branch that will fall to the ground and become a new tree. It will grow side by side with the Shinali tree, the roots separate and strong, but the leaves and branches will weave together like one tree. The eagle will make its nest in the branches of both.”

  “We have a similar prophecy,” said Gabriel. “My Master, Salverion, told me of it. It will be a time of cleansing for our nation, a beginning again.”

  Ashila looked across at the farms, toward his house. “There is the good branch,” she said. “People already wanting harmony with us, with our life on the land. People like your mother. Like you. In the Time of the Eagle, you’ll be the tree that grows beside ours, on this land.”

  He smiled. “I wouldn’t complain about a Shinali way of life. But why call the new time the Time of the Eagle?”

  “The eagle is the sign of our people. It’s the sign carved on the sacred torne, the bone that Oboth wears. The torne holds great power, all the memories and wisdom of our clan. It also tells a prophecy, that our victory will begin with one man, a man with a high lot of braveness, who does one thing great for us. It’s his face on the torne, with the eagle. We won’t be knowing who the man is; the prophets say he’ll come and go, and most of us won’t even recognize him, or know what he does. But he will begin the Time of the Eagle. It’s ancient, the torne, and is passed down from chieftain to oldest son, and from chieftain’s wife to the women of the family. Oboth’s daughter had one, but it’s lost wi
th her.”

  Abruptly, Gabriel turned and walked on. But Ashila had seen his azure eyes darken like the skies when the sun was gone, and she followed, confused, sensing more in him than sorrow for the huge change to come in his people’s destiny. There was something else, something deep and lifelong and secret, and it disturbed her profoundly.

  Eventually Gabriel stopped and waited for her. He looked distraught. “Maybe I shouldn’t be here,” he said.

  “Why? Because our people, yours and mine, were old enemies?”

  “Not that. You don’t know me, Ashila. I have no right to be here on your land, a guest in your house.”

  “You are having the right. Your spirit has long visited our house, our land. You dream Shinali dreams. You have more right than you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated, then said quietly: “There’s another thing, about the face on the ancient torne. The man who will begin the Time of the Eagle . . . he’s Navoran.”

  “What’s that to do with me?”

  She was silent, solemn, and he realized what she implied. Astounded, he shook his head, then laughed a little. “You don’t know me, Ashila! I dream Shinali dreams, that’s all. But as for being the one to bring about the rebirth of your nation—by God! You couldn’t be more wrong! That man will be a far better person than I.”