Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  “He will bring about the rebirth of the Navoran nation, too. A man who loves both peoples, both ways. He will unite them, make them one.”

  “He’ll be a good man, Ashila. Brave. True. Not me.”

  “You’re brave. You went with Tarkwan in his canoe. And your heart is true. I see it.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I see pain. That is different from not-truth. Why are you here this day, Gabriel? Are you thinking it’s chance?”

  “You’re terribly mistaken. I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “My knowing is never wrong.”

  “This time it is wrong.”

  “My knowing is this right,” she said, driving her right fist violently into her left palm.

  Gabriel looked away from her impassioned face, appalled at this sudden disunity between them, at what he thought was the huge folly of her belief.

  Ashila sighed deeply and made a graceful sign with her hand, as if to apologize. “I’m being sorry, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “You’re my guest, a friend on our land. Also, this is your mourning time. I’m being sorry I shakened your canoe.”

  “I don’t mind you shaking my canoe,” he said. “Just don’t turn it upside down.”

  “That is for the All-father to do, not me,” she replied. “I would be happy if we could paddle our canoes together, side by side.”

  He smiled, and it transformed the strong angles of his face, banishing whatever tormented him. They began walking again, close, and came to a group of trees beside the river. One had fallen, its colossal trunk and tangled branches making a natural shelter from the wind. Ashila leaned against it, facing the mountains. The tree had obviously fallen a long time ago, and the ground about it was trampled smooth into a comfortable hollow.

  “We’re not the first to stop here,” Gabriel observed, putting his cloak down so they could sit on it, and noticing stylized pictures of animals and weapons cut into the trunk beside his head. There were flocks of birds, each one the same.

  As she sat down with him, Ashila explained: “This place we call Ta-sarn-ee. It means ‘The place where no one sees.’ This is where people come to get away from the clan.”

  “I suppose there’s not much privacy, all of you living in one house.”

  “Arik, the soldier who lived with us, he told us that Navorans have one family in one house. It must be hard for you, in our place. So much noise.”

  “Yesterday I needed the noise,” said Gabriel. “I enjoyed my time with your people, Ashila.”

  “Will you eat with us tonight, before you go?”

  “I’d like to, but it’s my last night with my family for a long time.”

  “Oboth is pleased someone from the farms has come to us. He wants Navorans to meet with us, though the treaty forbids them on our land. That’s why he sold a little land for farms; he hopes to trade, and that Navorans who love the land will be our friends. He’ll be glad that you’ve talked on these things with your mother.”

  “What’s wrong with the chieftain? He’s in a lot of pain.”

  “He doesn’t tell me that, and I can’t help him till he does.”

  “What kind of healing do you give?”

  “With medicines from plants and trees. And sometimes, if I’m feeling very strong, I can heal just from here.” She placed her fingertips on her forehead and watched his face, expecting him to laugh.

  “I heal that way too,” he said.

  Ashila looked astounded. “Arik said the only way for healing was with a knife, and strong drink to kill the pain.”

  “That’s the way it is for most of the physicians in Navora, especially the ones who travel with the army. Though they also use herbal medicines. I think your mother’s met some of the healers I know. I’d like to talk to her again and find out.”

  “What other healings are you knowing?”

  “At the Citadel we learn to stop pain so people feel nothing if they have to have surgery.”

  “What’s surgery?”

  “Healing with the knife.”

  “How do you stop the pain of that?”

  “I can’t tell you; I’m sorry. We make vows that we won’t ever teach our skills.”

  “Can you show me? Not show me how to do it, but only what happens.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this.”

  “Not even for another healer, whose heart is like yours?”

  “You make it hard to say no, Ashila. If I stop the feeling in your hand, is that all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s best if we stand so you can have your spine perfectly straight.”

  She did as he suggested, and he explained that he would touch the back of her neck and her shoulder. She turned her back to him and waited, relaxed and trusting. Gently he brushed aside her hair, then moved his fingertips across her spine. Her neck was long and lithe, her skin like warm satin, and he had trouble keeping his thoughts on his work. When he had finished blocking the necessary pathways, his hands stayed there and he had an almost irresistible urge to move his mouth over her skin. Never before during his work had he felt such an impulse, and it shocked him.

  “Have you finished?” she asked, because his fingers were still.

  “Yes. Try to make a fist of your right hand.”

  She tried, then turned to face him, her eyes wide with wonder. “I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t move it.”

  “The paralysis will wear off by tonight.” He lifted her hand and squeezed each of her fingertips in turn, hard, until her nails were bloodless.

  “I’m feeling nothing,” she said. “You could sew up a cut on my hand, and I’d be not knowing it.”

  “That’s why we learn that skill.”

  “And you’re not allowed to show me how?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “How long did it take you to learn?”

  “I can’t tell you that either. I can’t say anything at all about the healing arts I learn. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand. Thank you for showing me this.”

  He was still holding her hand, massaging it gently to hasten back the feeling. “Can you tell me how you heal with your mind?” he asked.

  “Words are hard. When a person is sick, say with fever, I sleep with them, see their pain and sick-being, but not with these eyes. Then, with a high lot of strongness, I see them well. You’re knowing what I mean?”

  “Yes, I know. Did your mother teach you healing, Ashila?”

  “Yes. And an old woman gave her the knowing when she was being young.”

  “And you’ll teach someone, one day?”

  “That’s our way.”

  “Who will you teach?”

  “My daughter, when I have one.”

  “Do you have anyone in the clan you want to marry?”

  “I was loving Tarkwan, long in time.”

  “All your life, you mean?”

  “No. Long time past. I was six summers old, and he was twelve.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was being a man before I was being a woman. He chose Moondarri.”

  “Are they married?”

  “Since they were fourteen summers old. He’s always bringing her to Ta-sarn-ee, and the people laugh at them for it. Tarkwan carved all the birds in the tree, a bird for every time they’re being here.”

  Gabriel was still holding her hand, lightly stroking her fingers and palm and wrist. She withdrew it and gave him the other.

  “You want me to numb this one, too?” he asked, puzzled.

  “No. But if you’re pleasuring my hand,” she said, her lips curled, “I’d like it on skin that can feel.”

  Reddening, he laughed softly and let her go. “Sorry,” he said. “I was forgetting myself. Forgetting a lot of things.” He picked up his cloak and flung it about his shoulders again, and stood looking at the mountains. The snowy peaks shone, turned golden by the sun setting on the far side of the sky.

  “Sometimes
forgetting is good,” Ashila murmured. “Do you want to walk on?”

  “For a little way.”

  They walked up out of the shadows into the dazzling light and on toward the mountains. They stopped after a while, looking at the peaks.

  Ashila was wearing only her woollen dress, and she shivered, putting her paralyzed hand under her arm. Gabriel stood behind her and enfolded her in the cloak with him. Their shadows merged into one, stretched out in front of them across the bright Shinali land. The evening was serene. The only sounds were the calls of homeward-bound birds and the chuckle of the river as it rushed across the stones. The mountains were breathtaking, their valleys streaked with misty purple, their summits on fire with the last light of the day.

  “What do you call the mountains?” Gabriel asked.

  “The highest one, on the other side of the river, we call Sharnath. It’s our sacred mountain.”

  “Why is it sacred?”

  “The All-father lives there.”

  “You go there to worship?”

  “This word . . . worship?”

  “To pray. Talk to the All-father.”

  “No. We worship wherever we are. But we journey to the mountain, one time in a turning of the seasons, those of us who need to. We have a time we call the Moon of the Seventh Sacrament. It’s the seventh season, the little last one, only one new moon to the next. It comes at the ending of the winter, in the time of the yellow flowers.”

  “What do you do, on the Moon of the Seventh Sacrament?”

  “It’s our holy time, when we let go things of the old seasons and prepare for the new. The earth-changes are also in the spirit world. If we need to, we can journey up the sacred mountain and make a sacrament to the All-father.”

  “Like a sacrifice?”

  “I’m not knowing that word.”

  “Sacrifice means to give something up.”

  Ashila repeated the word several times. “It’s like that, like a sacrifice,” she said. “On the mountain we leave a sign of whatever we want to forget, and when we return home it’s finished. We can leave there anything, and it’s a secret between ourselves and the All-father. It may be a debt we can’t pay, a hurt we can’t forgive, a guilt, a grief. Anything that’s heavy on our hearts, that we can’t carry. The sacrament is a letting go. It’s a work of the All-father, not of ourselves, something we leave with him to finish or mend.”

  “It’s a beautiful belief.”

  “Do you have anything like that in Navora?”

  “I suppose the nearest thing is our Sanctuary of Healing Dreams. People sleep there who need healing in their minds.”

  Without warning, images of his last night in the sanctuary crowded into his head, and he thought of Myron being there, wanting to see him; saw Myron standing on the sanctuary steps, running down them, going to his death. To the death that should have been Gabriel’s. Grief went through him, deep and hard like a physical pain.

  Ashila felt his arms tighten about her, felt him press his face into her hair, and heard his breath, broken and distraught. She wanted to turn around and face him, but he held her too firmly. So she moved her arms until they were lying over his, and their hands were clasped. She held him that way until he was quiet again, and the skies were dark and velvet blue, and a sliver of silver moon hung in the sky. Even then he did not move away but stayed close, his breath warm across her hair.

  “My brother died for me,” he said. And he sighed deeply, as if speaking the words eased an agony.

  “That makes your life twice sacred,” she said.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I feel guilty for being alive.”

  “Our destinies are written,” she said. “Don’t sorrow for anything, Gabriel. Our birthing time is chosen by the All-father, the parents we have and the home and all the days and big happenings of our lives. Don’t you think he also chooses with high carefulness that day we walk the shadow-place between the worlds and see his face?”

  Gently Gabriel released her and turned her to him. He lifted his hand and stroked back her hair, his fingertips lingering on her cheek. “I know he chose this day,” he said.

  “I know it too. But this day’s almost gone, and your people are needing you.”

  “My people,” he sighed, looking back along the grasslands toward the farms and the winking lights of the houses there. Beyond, coppery in the dusk, were the Citadel hills, and, hidden from view, the mighty city of Navora. He said, with sorrow and bitterness, “My people are a tangled brood, Ashila.”

  He put his arm and the cloak about her, and they walked back to her home. He went inside to say good-bye, and the people did their best to persuade him to stay for the night, or at least for the evening feast. The men were back after a successful hunt, and they were celebrating. “We’ll be showing you how to dance the Shinali way,” said Tarkwan.

  “And I’ll be giving you Shinali clothes, and be painting your face,” Yeshi promised.

  Gabriel was very tempted but declined as graciously as he could. They all shook hands with him, and many embraced him. Last he went to say good-bye to the chieftain, Oboth. “May I speak to you outside, for a moment?” Gabriel asked.

  Oboth went up the steps with him into the freezing night, and they stood for a few moments looking up at the stars while Gabriel chose his words.

  “I was at a dinner in the city a little time past,” Gabriel said. “One of the guests was the commander of the Navoran army. He’d been drinking wine and said a few things that probably he shouldn’t have. He said the army was going to cross the Shinali land again soon and mentioned something about walking through your house. He said other things. I can’t remember them word for word, but I think the treaty isn’t going to be honored much longer. Also, they’re going to restore Taroth, make it strong again.”

  For a long time the chieftain said nothing, but his eyes were moist as they gazed across his land. He looked suddenly incredibly old and frail and tormented.

  “I wish I could help you, Oboth,” Gabriel said.

  “You just have. More than you know.”

  “I mean, your sickness.”

  “Nothing can help that.”

  “At least let me stop the pain.”

  Oboth nodded, and Gabriel stood in front of him and held him close and moved his hands over the chieftain’s bowed spine.

  Ashila came out of the house. Unnoticed, in utter silence, she watched. In the starlight Gabriel’s hands seemed luminous as they moved down the chieftain’s back, and his hair was like silver, his face inexorable and frightening and beautiful. His eyes were closed, and drops of sweat rolled down his forehead, as if huge forces were being drawn out of him. At last he sighed, and at the same moment Oboth lifted his head. In wonder the chieftain touched his own chest, moving his hands down as if searching for something he had lost. Then his face broke into a smile, and he took Gabriel’s hands and chanted a blessing in Shinali.

  Gabriel glanced up and saw Ashila waiting for him. She looked away as soon as he saw her, and started walking along the grasslands toward the farms. Gabriel and Oboth embraced, the chieftain thanking him again in Shinali and in Navoran, telling him to come back whenever he wished. Then he went back into the house, and Gabriel ran after Ashila.

  She was striding fast, and he thought she was angry again. He could not see her face; she kept it averted or managed to walk just ahead of him. He wanted to rest, to gather back his energies, but she seemed in a hurry. He wiped his arm across his face and noticed that his hand trembled.

  “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Why so fast? Why won’t you look at me? If it’s because of Oboth, I didn’t heal him. That’s for you to do your way. I just stopped his pain, that’s all. I’m sorry if you feel that my helping him was wrong.”

  “Oh, Gabriel,” she said, stopping and gazing at him. Her face was wet with tears. “How could it be wrong? It was beautiful. Like a holy work.”

  “It wa
s just nerves.”

  “Nerves?”

  “Yes. I block them, so the pain messages don’t get through. I shouldn’t be telling you this. I’m breaking my vows. But don’t look at me like that, Ashila. I’m nothing special.”

  “Yes you are. What are nerves? Devils?”

  “No, I’m not. And they’re not. Devils, I mean. Nerves. Can we walk slowly? I’m tired. I can hardly think. I get like this when I’ve healed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m not understanding you well. Next time, perhaps, I will.”

  “I think you understand me very well,” he said, walking on again. “But there’s something I’ve got to tell you, Ashila. I won’t be coming back. Not for a long time. I can’t. I’m pledged to stay at the Citadel and can’t make journeys or visits to friends. I was allowed to come to the farm only for two days, because of Myron. Tomorrow I go back to the Citadel.”

  “You had only two days for your family, and you gave pieces of them to us?”

  “I suppose I did.”

  She looked at him straight, and her smile changed the pulsing of his heart. “Thank you,” she said. “I thank you, with sharleema.”

  He stopped walking. “What does sharleema mean?” he asked, tensely.

  “What’s wrong, Gabriel?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’m sorry if—”

  “Tell me!”

  “It has many meanings. There isn’t a word in your language like it. Arik said it meant ‘with all the force of my soul.’ It can be a word of high thanks, or a strong asking, or a vow. If I said something to you and I wanted you to know the words were powerful to me, I’d add sharleema. To say sharleema at a promise end is to make the promise strong for life. If I asked you to do something, and added sharleema, it would be a crime for you not to do my asking. When I said sharleema just now, when I thanked you for giving us pieces of your days, I was telling you that I have a debt to you, and you have the right to ask anything of me, and I’ll do it. We don’t use sharleema unless we mean it. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” But his face was drawn and pale, and she worried. They walked for a long way without speaking. Beside them the river boomed, the rapids foaming white under the brilliant stars. Nearer the edge of the plain the river widened as it sighed and gurgled idly over the stones.