by Sam Puma
“Put him in the middle. Bind one wrist to that post,” Juitao directed, and his men complied. Jorobai kept his head down while they tied his left wrist. “Now tie the other wrist to the opposite post. Make sure he can’t reach over and untie himself.” The men followed his instructions and Jorobai was tied up again. He couldn’t help but notice that he was in a more comfortable position. “Now you can swat flies, scratch your itches and brush your hair back from your face. Good night, Jorobai.” Juitao and the hunters retreated to their huts.
Juitao’s youngest son gestured at the palika in the cage and asked his mother about it. “It’s a gift for Jugon Drogon, my dear.”
Jorobai’s despair yielded to a calmer state of being as he felt soothed by the meal and the chance to stretch out. He waited through the evening hours, overhearing the sounds of families visiting with their kin in their huts. When it was dark and late, he tested the ropes that bound him. Juitao’s men were precise. He could come within a few fingers width of untying one hand with the other, but couldn’t reach any further. He could walk around a bit, and like Juitao said, he could scratch his itches.
He lay awake on the floor and his fighting spirit was renewed. He tried to conceive of a way to thwart Juitao’s plan and escape to the beach, but his mind was still working when his thoughts drifted and gave way to sleep.
Every day, Juitao brought back another live bird. Cages emerged from behind huts, and one by one, the door of each hut was decorated by a palika in a cage. Jorobai couldn’t contain his grim speculations. He was convinced that Jugon Drogon was a large predator who would come and accept the villagers’ sacrifice of his flesh and the flesh of the palika.
Every day he complacently ate his servings of palika soup. Liana brought the bowl and without his hands bound behind his back, he was able to feed himself. At night he tried to figure out how to escape. He pulled hard on his ropes but could not reach over far enough to untie himself. Eventually the hut creaked and he heard someone stirring, so he stopped to rest for the night.
As the days passed a growing lethargy and apathy came over him. He cared less and less about his fate and simply waited with the caged palika to discover the fate that Jugon Drogon would bring. He looked forward to each bowl of soup and welcomed the change when they started bringing him three bowls per day instead of two. He was getting fat and he didn’t mind. He thought less about escape and his quest to find his son, and more about how great it was that the island was so abundantly populated with palika.
On the seventh day, Juitao brought Jorobai his third bowl of soup and sat with him on the platform. Liana brought another bowl and Juitao leaned back on a post and dined with Jorobai.
“You are more content now,” said Juitao. “I sleep better knowing that.”
Jorobai looked up from his bowl and into Juitao’s eyes. “This is the best food I have ever eaten.” He looked down and continued eating.
“I want to help you because you stink. You can’t go to the stream and bathe, so I am sending one of our four virgins to bathe you. A gift from Fayaya to Jorobai.” After that, Juitao took the empty bowls and departed.
Nakila arrived just after sunset with a pouch slung over her shoulder and a big pot of water. She was one of the four virgins who had eyed him lustfully from the time that he arrived there until the time he was bound. She looked fertile with soft curves and the glowing skin of youth, but her flattened nose and fleshy neck made her the least appealing of the four. She set down the pot of water and pouch and smiled at him.
“Good evening,” she said softly. He sat there idly like a babe about to be washed by his mother, gazing up at her appreciatively as she cupped the water in her hands and poured it over him repeatedly until he was thoroughly rinsed. Then she tenderly scrubbed him all over with her bare hands and rinsed him again. She pulled a smaller bag from her pouch, took a pinch of powder, dropped it into the remaining water in the pot and stirred it with her hands.
It emitted a sweet fragrance that soothed him. He breathed easy as she smoothed his hair back from his brow. She cupped his face in her hands and slowly spread the perfumed water over his face. He felt like a hummingbird dipping his beak into a blooming flower.
She took a beaded necklace made from seeds and draped it around his neck. She bade him good night with a kiss on his forehead, gathered her things as the stars twinkled in the fading twilight. All seemed well, save for the faint aching sensation in his wrists.
Another seven days passed as the moon receded from a sliver into nothing. In the evening the people of Fayaya gathered in their newly built longhouse for a new moon ceremony that lasted late into the night. Before the ceremony, Juitao sent another one of the four single women to bathe Jorobai and adorn him with more perfume and another beaded necklace.
Jorobai watched the ceremony from a distance, sitting alone in the darkness while the tribe gathered around a fire and sang and danced and listened to tales from the elders. Juitao dipped his feather fan into a pot of scented water and flicked water onto his villagers while he chanted blessings. He lit his pipe and blew smoke over them, praising the name of Jugon Drogon while the bottle of Amoza sat with his other sacred objects on his altar. Jorobai thought he heard his name mentioned once or twice, but grew weary as the night wore on, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of the tribe’s rhythmic chanting.
He awoke with a start to the sound of Juitao’s voice. “Sorry to wake you, Jorobai.” The night was all darkness save for the starlight. Jorobai felt afraid and cowered away. “I did not forget you,” said Juitao, and Jorobai heard the sound of the fan dipping into the pot of water. Then he heard the flapping of the fan and felt the droplets of water tickling his skin all over his body. “May you be cleansed and renewed.”
Juitao set his fan aside and moved in close. Jorobai smelled the various smudges and perfumes from the ceremony all over Juitao’s skin. One of the scents reminded him of a day long passed that he could not bring to mind, but for a moment he saw the image of his grandfather’s face.
Juitao struck a spark and lit the pipe that was already filled and hanging from his mouth. He looked at Jorobai intently as he took a puff of smoke. When the light hit his face, Jorobai saw him as an old man. Then he looked like his grandfather, then his father. For the briefest moment, his jaw looked similar to the jaw of one of the mongrels found dead in a tragedy that flickered in his memory. He let out a muffled sob, closed his eyes tight and put one hand over his face. Juitao blew the smoke all over him. “May Jugon Drogon bless you.”
“No!” The fear made his body shake as he bleated out the word.
“Oh, yes. Jugon Drogon blesses you. The Amoza told me directly.” With that, Juitao gathered his things and departed, leaving Jorobai trembling. After Juitao walked away, the fear began to subside. His attention drifted toward the pleasant scents that coated his skin. He inhaled deeply and plunged back into sleep.
He dreamed it was day. He was tied to the post again, with his hands behind his back. Rongo was on the opposite side of the hut, also tied with his hands behind his back. When their eyes met, his brother spoke to him. “Let’s get out of here!” His eyes blazed and the veins in his neck, chest and arms bulged as he struggled against the ropes. He had not grown fat like Jorobai, but was still just as strong and lean and fierce as the day he died. “Like this,” he growled as he pulled his weight forward, tensing every muscle in his body. The far corner of the hut collapsed as Rongo broke the post free from its bindings and up out of the ground. “Come on Jorobai!” He called out as he sprinted off into the forest with the post tied to his back.
Jorobai watched him go. He felt tired, and comfortable sitting down. He didn’t have the strength to break the post free, and he was salivating as he could smell the palika soup cooking. It was almost ready. He eagerly waited for his next meal, which was on its way.
Another seven days passed and Jorobai was feeling pleasantly lethargic.
His dream about Rongo didn’t matter to him anymore. It had only mattered while he dreamt it.
He was bathed by the third of the four single women and she was more beautiful than the first two. She drew him in with her large eyes and long, straight hair parted down the middle. When she was through, she perfumed his head, adorned him with another necklace, and thanked him for his sacrifice.
“Sacrifice?” Jorobai’s opened wide.
Instead of answering, she kissed his forehead and walked away.
The palikas roamed free of their cages, pecking at the ground. They had no interest in flying away. They had become domesticated. Juitao’s people fed them bits of food and cleaned up after their messes. They climbed up and down on Jorobai’s platform. So close he could have reached out and grabbed them.
He did nothing. He couldn’t think straight or maintain a train of thought. He watched the moon get brighter. There was a power that held him there that he could not understand.
By the time Juitao reduced his bindings to simply tying one ankle to a post, Jorobai had lost his impulse to escape. He sat there and ate his palika soup and watched the days pass. He watched as the people spent hours decorating the village. They strung flowers together and hung garlands all over, as many as they could. They practiced dances and sang songs together. Juitao continued with his daily hunting expeditions, always bringing back a single palika to add to his collection. He wore a more elaborate feather garb every day. The feathers bounced along with his every move, and he grew more and more excited about the coming of Jugon Drogon and the festival.
“Jugon Drogon.” The words rang out everywhere but Jorobai couldn’t remember what they meant. They offered him a seasoned palika leg grilled over the fire and he savored the new and exciting flavors and textures.
Jorobai was not himself. Somewhere deep inside there was a faint flicker of alarm at the gravity of his situation, but it was heavily overshadowed by the sense of peace and joy that radiated throughout the village. He considered himself fortunate when Juitao would occasionally dine with him and kept him company with bits of conversation.
On the eve of the full moon, Juitao had much more to say. Garlands were everywhere. The whole village was bursting with color. Twenty-seven blue birds nestled in their cages, penned up for the night. Families retreated to their huts. Juitao sat with Jorobai for the final meal of the day. He had removed most of his feathers and left them in his hut.
“You are getting bigger every day. Jugon Drogon will be so pleased to see you,” said Juitao. He beamed with pride.
“Am I a sacrifice?” Jorobai blurted out the question without thinking.
“Yes. I will encourage him to choose you. We have always had extra women, so every year, he takes a woman. But this year I would rather offer you.”
“What will he do with me?”
“The others… he took them up into his cave and we have never seen them since.”
Jorobai was stricken with fear. The corners of his mouth sagged as he gasped.
“Our four single women bathe you to show their gratitude to you for your sacrifice that will grant all of them at least one more year on the island with our tribe. At first they were happy to see a new man come, and they all wanted to marry you. But after the chaos that you wrought here, they lost interest. Now they see you as their savior.”
Juitao rose to his feet. “You are starting to stink again.” He took Jorobai’s empty bowl and retired to his hut with his family.
Kiki was the most beautiful of the four virgins, with large eyes, full lips and shiny brown skin. Strings of beads and feathers decorated her head, arms and chest. She smiled and greeted Jorobai by the light of a stone bowl that held hot ashes from the fire. When he saw her face, a memory flashed through his mind from the day that he was helping to harvest the yucca, and she had reached out and touched his hand. He remembered pulling his hand away and wondered why he had retreated from such a beauty.
She set the bowl of hot coals in the corner of the hut and sprinkled some powder over it. It crackled, sparkled, and released a smoke that filled the air with the sweet smell of dried sap from the colaiba tree. Jorobai leaned back against a post while she went to fetch the warm water. He watched her affectionately as she came and went.
She dipped her hands into the water and began to bathe him. She was slow and deliberate as she moved her hands across his body, and leaned her ample bosom into his face while she rubbed the ache from his shoulders.
“I always liked you and your cat.” She spoke softly into his ear and the caress of her breathy voice was sweeter than that of her hands. “My womb was aching for a man. When you came to our village, and I saw the kind of man you were, I hoped you would choose me.”
Jorobai soaked up her attention and felt euphoric sensations all over.
“I want you. I choose you.” In that moment, he was sure of it. He imagined them together in their own hut, holding each other close. He imagined her belly swelling with a child. He imagined her smiling up at him while she nursed their babe. He imagined the three of them walking hand in hand together, bidding “good morning” and smiling to Juitao and the other tribespeople.
“But you changed.” As her story shifted, her soft tone continued to soothe him as she washed him clean. “You fell out of favor with Juitao. You are soft and fat. Are you still a man? You look and act like a baby. You are like one of those palika, just sitting here waiting to be fed.
“I cannot live with a man who is more like a small child.” Her face was sad as she cupped his face in her hands and gazed into his eyes. She leaned in close and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. She slowly drew her lips to his lips and kissed him. She pressed her body into him and held him while they kissed like young lovers. He reached his hands up to her hips and pulled her in close. For a moment he was in ecstasy.
But then she slowly pulled her lips away, released the embrace, sat back from him, and left him flushed and breathless. He pined for her as she sprinkled the perfumed powder into the water. She washed the perfume over his face like the others had. He knew she was leaving and he wanted to reach out to her and compel her to stay. But the palika soup sat heavy in his gut, and the lethargic feeling that had been dominating his life prevented him from doing anything but muttering a final plea.
“Please stay with me,” he said with a quivering voice as tears welled up in his eyes.
She hung the fourth and final beaded necklace over his head and looked into his eyes. “I want to thank you, Jorobai. For you have come to save me, to give me at least one more year with my tribe. Juitao told me so. And you have given me a hope that someday more men will come on boats and be husbands for us women who have none. May Jugon Drogon bless you.” She kissed him on the lips once more, gathered her things and left him alone again.
The light of the almost full moon slipped through the cracks in the roof of his hut and illuminated the tears that rolled down Jorobai’s face as he cried himself to sleep.
The Ashtari Man
The sun was already high in the sky when Jankaro emerged from his chamber. The sky was finally clear, and the light of the sun was blinding after using his night vision. His muscles ached and he kept his head down as he walked. He was curious about the work that Oranos spoke about. He wanted to know if the bodies were gone.
Sure enough, it was true. The front courtyard was empty. In his mind’s eye he saw the bodies of the Cruxai strewn about. But they were all gone and the blood was washed away. The big difference was the bridge. The battered gate was gone, and the stone bridge was gone. In its place was a wooden bridge. He walked out onto it and saw Galdean scouts patrolling the hillsides outside the city as the sheep grazed on the northern hills.
As he crossed to the other side of the bridge, Janesa rode up on a horse, with a bow slung over her shoulder. “I was glad I didn’t see you last night. That meant you made it through okay. And I
heard about your armor. It worked!” She dismounted, strode forward and embraced him. He slowly raised his tired arms and embraced her back. She stood back and looked him over. He was barefoot with only his shirt and pants on. She wore a helmet and armor. “What are you doing out here?”
“I just wanted to know if it would be like Oranos said. I wanted to believe him. When he said he would do that, and all of us who had fought could go and sleep, I was relieved. It sounded like a horrible task.”
“Yours is a horrible task, too,” said Janesa.
It was a grim acknowledgment. They shared a somber look, both of them feeling like they had seen too much in their young lives.
“Oranos and the people of Caladon are not finished honoring you. Go now, to the arena, and receive the gifts that the people have to offer you.” She strode back to her horse and rode away.
He watched her ride off, then took another moment to watch the rams and sheep in their quietude. Then he turned and walked back across the bridge, into Caladon. He walked back to the arena, tilting his face up at the afternoon sun. When he arrived he heard a multitude of voices gathered in celebration.
A young man led him inside up a stairway to the left. The people cheered and sang and chatted with one another while the children played. Down on the arena floor, a group of drummers and musicians played a lively tune while three women with bared midsections danced together, in synch with each other.
“Jankaro!” Orion waved him over from the terraced, grassy section where he sat. He went to join his friend and they embraced.
“Anhael went out this morning with 20 workers to harvest the yanigo. We are going to outfit our entire army with the armor. You did it!”