by Calista Skye
“It is mine,” the third man interrupts. “It's the one to the east, a little aside. It's more exposed to the sun than the others. I have cared for it every day. Almost. But then ...”
“Let me guess. Then you neglected it for several days because you were busy with other things,” Trak'zor says harshly. “Perhaps this was close to the opening of the year's first vat of burl? And you were out of it for many days after?”
The other man looks down. “It was not my intention to be negligent. But you know how it is when the burl is particularly good and strong ...”
“I really don't, Nun'tax. So this entire tribe was dead drunk for days? It crossed nobody's mind to care for the Lifegivers? Not even the chief's mind?”
I've never heard an icier voice. He's calm, but rage is building in him. His hand holding my wrist is trembling, ever so slightly.
The chief clears his voice. “The other Lifegivers are fine. And if Nun'tax, the father himself, who has given of himself into the Lifegiver, can't be bothered to care for his own offspring, then the tribe will feel much less obligated, too.”
“Any tribe worth the name would make sure that all the Lifegivers were always taken care of, no matter the father's condition,” Trak'zor seethes. “The unborn are a matter for the tribe, not for the individual tribesman!”
The chief gives him a cold little smile. “I seem to recall having made a similar point to you some time ago, Trak'zor. You were less in agreement then.”
Trak'zor tenses up and goes pale, and his hand flies to his sword.
“But you make a good point,” the chief says quickly, probably seeing the same thing I am. “That was a different case back then. We shall certainly try to be more careful with the Lifegivers from now on. Now, I assume that since you're here, you've decided to assist us with this? It's really the least you can do, considering that you insist on keeping your mysterious powers to yourself.”
His gaze shifts to me. “As well as some other things.”
“Please,” Nun'tax says. “It's my first and only.”
Trak'zor stares the chief down, forcing him to look away and around in a way that would be pretty funny if Trak'zor weren't so obviously furious.
“I will help. This one time. Not because of you, Nun'tax. And certainly not because of you, Heri'ox. But because that unborn boy is an innocent life who deserves better than to be killed by this useless, shameful and dishonored tribe before he can even draw breath. You are a curse to this tribe, Heri'ox! That's why I have cast this tribe out! You are all outcasts!”
Trak'zor says that last part very loudly, and a gasp goes through the crowd that has slowly assembled around us.
The chief goes pale and reaches for his sword, but Trak'zor simply cocks his head to the side and raises his eyebrows, as if asking 'really?'
Chief Heri'ox's fingers slip limply off the hilt of his sword and he turns away, marching back to his hut in a caricature of injured dignity.
Nun'tax touches Trak'zor's arm. “Please, let us hurry.”
Sophia and Emilia have told us about the Lifegivers that the tribes use to make babies instead of women. They are essentially a mix of plant and animal, and they will conceive and nurture a fetus from the cells of a single man. That means that the babies they produce are pretty much clones of their fathers.
Delyah once said that she had trouble believing that something as useful and complicated as a Lifegiver could evolve by chance, but I never quite got her point. Now that I'm looking at one, the weirdness of it is staring me in the face and almost knocking me out.
It's large and green and obviously a plant. It has vines and leaves and stalks. But it's also obviously an animal. The vines move and the roots have a kind of fur that moves rhythmically, as if there were lungs or a heart inside it. In the middle is a dark green bud the size of a washing machine.
Trak'zor lets go of my wrist and walks closer to the bud, gently stroking the moving vines and leaves that approach him as if to check who he is.
He carefully peels back one of the leaves that make out the bud. Its edges are brown, like those of a houseplant that's not been watered for days. He opens more of the leaves, and then the unborn baby inside is only separated from him by a transparent leaf that he doesn't touch.
He gets the mysterious orb out of his pack, opens it and then turns his back to me.
He's busy with the Lifegiver for a few minutes, then gently closes one leaf after the other until the bud is completely closed up again.
“No damage,” he reports and puts the stone orb back in his sack. “The baby is still healthy. But the inner leaves were getting brittle. If the innermost had cracked, he would have died. One more day and there would be nothing I could do.”
Nun'tax wipes his eyes. “Thank you. I'll be more careful.”
Trak'zor fixes him with a gaze that makes me wince. “Will you? Burl makes you careless, Nun'tax. And it makes you drink more. Will you be able to not drink any burl until this boy has been born and is a year old?”
Nun'tax's red-rimmed eyes bulge. “A year old?”
“At least,” Trak'zor states. “Do you think the baby is finished when he's taken out, and now you can party the days away? No, Nun'tax. He will require care. More care than most men think. I know lazy fathers give their offspring to the tribe and hope that some of the boys will care for them. But not you, Nun'tax. You will care for your baby yourself. I expect that after this incident. You owe him. You owe me. And I will make sure you do your duty. I will come back. In the night or in the daytime, you don't know. If I smell the slightest hint of burl on your breath then, I will slice you open and watch you bleed to death, right here in this spot, making your blood nourishment for the tribe's unborn sons. That will be all you're good for.”
The flatness of his voice makes me shudder. He's not kidding.
Nun'tax realizes that, too. “Of course. Of course I will care for him. While he needs it. No burl for me. I've had enough for a lifetime anyway.”
Trak'zor puts a large hand on his shoulder. “Indeed you have. Now, who has young babies?”
As it turns out, there's only one baby in the village right now. Trak'zor and I go into a hut that Nun'tax points out.
There's one tribesman in here, an older one with gray hair and a baby in his arms. He's clumsily trying to feed it from a leather pouch which must be full of some kind of fluid, because some of it is running down his chest and stomach.
“Trak'zor,” he says in surprise, and then he sees me and his jaw drops. I think maybe he's about to drop his baby, too, but he catches himself at the last moment.
“Veri'tox,” Trak'zor says in greeting. “I see you have two now.”
The other man finally gets a grip on himself. “I have. And you have ... The Woman?”
“Yes,” Trak'zor says and accepts the baby into his arms. “Did I not say I'd find her?”
“But then ... the women? They will return to us?”
Trak'zor gently strokes the baby's head, and his face softens. “She has yet do decide. I have counseled her to tell our tribe's women to stay away. The tribe isn't worthy of them. How is this boy?”
I smile to myself. He's really getting his money's worth. And the baby seems to trust him.
“He's healthy enough,” Veri'tox says and looks me up and down. “No particular problems except those that all babies have. Have you really suggested that? But ... the Prophecy ...”
“He's strong,” Trak'zor agrees. “It's a pity he was born into this tribe. Yes, the Prophecy says that The Woman will bring the other women back. But only if the tribe is worthy of them. Can you say that this tribe is?”
Veri'tox scratches his chin. “Things have changed here since I was young, certainly. Indeed we're not as strong. Fewer men go into the jungle now. But is this not the very reason we need the women back? To make us strong again?”
“Look at The Woman!” Trak'zor commands, and the other man does as told. “Do you see her beauty and her immense power? Do you see t
he softness in her face? The roundness of her chest and her hips? The mystery in her eyes? The thickness of her hair? The smallness of the nose? The smoothness of her skin? Now tell me that this tribe deserves their women back!”
“Don't let your anger cloud this most important moment, Trak'zor. Yes, you were treated very shabbily back then. We often speak of it. But this is what we have all been waiting for!”
“Not you, Veri'tox. You have given into the Lifegivers twice now. Surely you need no more offspring? Some of us have none. What do you say, sacred Woman? Is this tribe worthy?” He looks at me with a glint in his eyes.
What would Xena do if asked to play a goddess?
She'd play the best goddess in history.
I clear my voice. “Tribe not take good care of lifegivers. Drink burl, stay drunk many days. Many boys in village, dressed in rags. Many men fat! Is much scandal.”
Trak'zor lifts his eyebrows. “You see?”
“You speak our language?” Veri'tox asks me, friendly enough.
I straighten my back and give him a haughty look, making my best impression of a divine being. “I do. But long ago since speak last.”
“Ah, I see. Well, sacred Woman, then you must understand that Trax'zor has his reasons for being angry with our tribe. Good reasons, of course. But perhaps listen to what others have to say? He might not give you the right impression.”
I incline my head. “Everything Trak'zor say is true so far. Indeed he's being kind to tribe, not tell how bad really is. What are his good reasons?”
Veri'tox glances at Trak'zor, as if to get his permission. Trak'zor just shrugs.
Veri'tox gestures to a rickety chair, but I give him a cold smile and remain standing.
He sits down himself. “Now, this happened some years ago.”
23
- Aurora -
“Trak'zor was always the strongest boy in the tribe,” Veri'tox says. “And he became the bravest warrior. Since he came of age, none of the other tribes have bothered us. He was the best hunter any of us had ever seen, sometimes bringing home live rekh hatchlings for fun, to horrify the older tribesmen. He was also unusually interested in the Lifegivers and the babies produced.”
“'Unusually' because nobody else took much of an interest in the youngest, who are in every way the future of the tribe,” Trak'zor interjects. “Any decent man would feel the same way.”
“He would often care for the babies of the tribe,” Veri'tox continues, “and he became quite good at it. Fathers would seek his advice and boys his own age would look up to him like an older brother. He really seemed to enjoy dealing with younger children, while we other warriors were just happy that someone did. But he always stood out in everything he did. So we all assumed that he would be permitted to give of himself into a Lifegiver at an early age. Perhaps even before his thirtieth year. It's a great honor. Only the best warriors and hunters may have offspring. There are very few Lifegivers.”
“That seems to have changed,” Trak'zor says. “Now, any old drunkard is good enough. As long as they agree with everything the chief says.”
“It has perhaps changed,” Veri'tox agrees. “Possibly because not many live to be forty, not to mention older than that. Anyhow, Trak'zor also had another part of his character that not everyone liked: he was curious. He enjoyed exploring the jungle. On his travels, he came across Bune, the forbidden mountain. And he climbed up on it and explored it. And then he came back and told everyone what he had done.”
“I had no idea it was Bune I had been on,” Trak'zor says. “We were only told that holy Bune was a forbidden mountain far away. I thought it was on the other side of the world. I had no idea I could walk there in only a day.”
“But the shaman realized from the description,” Veri'tox continues, “that it was indeed Bune he had climbed, against the wishes of the Ancestors. The tribal council talked about how to punish him, which seemed difficult. It was not a very serious crime. But some in the council pushed for harsh punishment. And so Trak'zor was told that he would not be permitted to have offspring. The Lifegivers would always remain closed for him. Because he had broken the rules. The best warrior and hunter in the tribe, the largest of us, the quickest, the sharpest thinker. The one who was the best at caring for the young. Of all in the tribe, he was the one who would never have a baby of his own.”
The hut is quiet except for the content mewling of the baby boy in Trak'zor's arms. He's looking emptily out in the air.
I wipe some sudden moisture off my face. This is why he's so mad at this tribe.
“It was jealousy, of course,” Veri'tox continues after a while. “Heri'ox had newly become chief, and he knew that Trak'zor was a better man than him. At any time, the tribe could decide to elect him instead of Heri'ox. But now he was disgraced and he would not be a threat to Heri'ox. Nor would he have offspring that would be a future threat. With the Lifegiver, one Trak'zor can make two Trak'zors. Or more.”
I put a hand on Trak'zor's stringy forearm. “It crushed you.”
He doesn't reply, which is a good enough answer in itself.
“It crushed him,” Veri'tox agrees. “He spent a long time in thought, walking aimlessly around the village and the jungle, day and night. Then one evening he assembled a tribal Campfire, which any warrior may do to suggest something important. He calmly announced that he cast us all out. And then he went off to live elsewhere.”
Trak'zor's face is stony.
The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck.
Veri'tox clears his throat. “Of course we knew it made no sense. One man is not a tribe. And yet, some of us felt uneasy about it. Because he was perhaps only one man, but he was the best one. And who would take care of the Lifegivers now? Happily, he sometimes comes back here to help us with them. He seems to have gained secret powers in his exile. So you see, sacred Woman, he was wronged. But he is also wrong about the tribe. It is a good tribe. Will you not stay and see for yourself?”
I ignore the question. I have no particular wish to stay here.
“Why you come back to help them, Trak'zor?”
Trak'zor looks down at the baby in his hands, now sleeping peacefully. “Because the unborn and the children are innocent. They are not to blame for this pitiful tribe's stupidity and cruelty and dishonor. The tribesmen are careless and lack most skills. Only I can help the innocent young.”
- - -
We leave the hut and go into the balmy night. The boys of the tribe are waiting for us outside, and when they see Trak'zor they continue their questions and excited tales, enjoying his company and his presence.
As we slowly make our way towards a flickering fire in the middle of the village, every hut we pass have men outside it and inside it, and they all stare at us. But nobody talks to us.
When we first came here, I wondered why their reaction to seeing a woman for the first time is so subdued. Now I know.
The tribes consider being cast out the most horrific fate. It's worse than death to them. It means death, of course. Nobody can survive on their own in this lethal jungle. And in their belief system, outcasts will not be able to join their Ancestors after death. Being cast out means a lonely, slow and dishonored death with no afterlife.
But Trak'zor cast the tribe out. If anyone else did something like that, it would just be a pitiful, laughable tantrum. Or a sign of insanity. But with him, it's chillingly real. The tribe was cast out. And they all know it.
Five men are sitting around the fire, talking quietly and sipping at stone cups. I recognize the chief among them. They abruptly go quiet when they see us coming, and they stare at me like I just fell from the sky. Which in a sense I suppose I did.
“The tribal council used to be stately and dignified,” Trak'zor says loudly. “Now all I see is a collection of frail drunkards in a village that's drowning in its own filth. This has your mark all over it, Heri'ox. When will you be satisfied? When all the Lifegivers are dead and the Bigs are feasting on the warriors' bones?”<
br />
There's a shocked silence, but the chief isn't taking the bait.
“You've found the Woman,” another man says. This one is old and wears a long, spotted animal skin around his shoulders. He's the only one who's not holding a cup. “Have you followed my instructions?”
“I have Worshipped her, as you taught us, Shaman Ren'tax.” Trak'zor says. “And I have mated with her. Many times.”
There's another stunned silence. And a triumphant smirk on Trak'zor's face.
“Mated?” the shaman creaks. “That was not part of it.”
Trak'zor glances at me with evil mirth in his eyes. “Oh, it really was. A very important part. A glorious part. The Woman has shown me many secrets.”
“Secrets? Then will the women return to our tribe?”
Trak'zor frowns. “To your tribe? Why should they?”
The chief gets to his feet, his face red. “This has gone on for long enough. You are a part of this tribe, Trak'zor! No one man can cast out a whole tribe! And now that you've found the Woman, I demand that you hand her over to the tribe, so that the Prophecy can be fulfilled!”
Trak'zor grins. “Come and get her, Heri'ox.”
I've faced both dactyls and raptors. But none of them looked as dangerous as Trak'zor does right now.
The chief stares daggers at him, plainly more than a little drunk, or he would have seen the murder in Trak'zor's eyes. “I will cast you out if you don't immediately-”
“Be quiet!” the old shaman barks with surprising force, and the chief splutters in drunken surprise and goes silent.
The shaman slowly gets to his feet, supported by a wooden stick. Then he gathers the animal skin around him. “Trak'zor, you cast us out. We deserved it. Now we must suffer the consequences. Will you please accompany me to my hut? The councilmen think only of drinking, even when The Woman herself is standing in our own village. I notice nobody has thought of offering her a drink. Or food. Let me do something about that.”
He hobbles away.
Trak'zor stares down each of the councilmen in turn, then snorts with contempt and turns his back.
