by John Boyne
My heart thumping faster in my chest now, I made my way slowly toward the rear of the workshop, where I discovered someone huddling in fear in the corner. As I turned the candle in his direction, I was surprised to see that it was the boy from the market, the one who had supposedly ascended the rope toward the heavens.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, and he shook his head, holding his hands out before him in a gesture of supplication.
“Please,” he said. “I didn’t take anything. I just needed somewhere to sleep, that’s all.”
He posed no threat to me and I ushered him to his feet, leading him to the center of the studio, where he stood before me, hanging his head in disgrace.
“It’s Deepak, isn’t it?” I asked, and he nodded.
“Yes,” he said dolefully. “The Amazing, Incredible, Astounding, Fantastic Deepak.”
“And where do you normally sleep?”
“In the hut with my master.”
“The ustad?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s thrown you out?”
“He says that I’ve grown too big to climb the rope. He has a new boy, two years younger than me, who he’s trained to take over from me. Yesterday was my final appearance before the people of Jahanpanah. I am no longer a jamoora. I am destitute.”
“And your parents?” I asked.
“I don’t have any,” he told me. “My master took me in when I was a child.”
“So what do you mean to do now? How will you live?”
He shook his head and I could see tears forming in his eyes. “I’ll find a way,” he said. “I may become a beggar. I think I would make an excellent beggar. My master always said—”
“Stop saying ‘my master,’ ” I told him. “None of us are slaves.”
“My ustad, then. He always said that I would make a good beggar because I have a pleasant face.”
I laughed a little. He did have a pleasant face, it was true, but I wasn’t sure that it would be enough to make a living on the streets, nor did I think that this was the only goal he could set for himself.
“Is that really all you want from your life?” I asked. “To be a beggar? You don’t hope for more?”
“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “My master always said that I was a perfectly useless boy and that it would be better for all if I were ground up for horse meat.”
“You managed the rope trick quite efficiently,” I said. “Tell me, what’s the secret behind it anyway?”
He looked up then and, when he smiled, his teeth were astonishingly white. “Don’t you know,” he said, “that a good magician never reveals his tricks?”
ARGENTINA
A.D. 1430
ALTHOUGH WE WERE NOT related by blood, I soon began to think of Diego as a son in all but name. When he came to live with us as a member of the Selk’nam tribe, I introduced him to Sofia, Bonita and Rafael and they were surprised at first but soon welcomed him into our home as part of our family. And in time it fell to me, as the person who had presented him to our community, to lead him toward his initiation ceremony.
In those early months, I worried that Diego might be cursed with an evil spirit, for he spent much of his time performing strange, unholy entertainments for Bonita and Rafael that seemed to me to be the work of the devil. Reaching behind their ears, he would discover an acorn where no acorn had previously been. He could make objects disappear from surfaces using only mirrors and sleight of hand. And, most disturbing of all, he would occasionally perform a trick that saw him levitate from the ground and float in midair, held there with no apparent means of support. While such distractions delighted the young people, I disapproved of them, concerned that the gods would punish us for such imprecations, and ordered him to stop. Had the elders of our tribe learned of his magical ways, I feared they would fear he was bringing a profane element into our world and that he might even be asked to leave. For a time, he obeyed me, but I suspected that when I was not present, the children would beg him to perform his tricks and, like anyone who enjoyed the attentions of an audience, he would find it impossible to disappoint them.
Still, for all the strangeness of his character, I enjoyed his company and had grown fond of him, for he had a pleasing manner and frequently made me laugh with his buffoonery.
Since his birth, I had looked forward to the day when Rafael would be old enough to learn the craft that I had spent many years perfecting—I was regarded as the most talented maker of quivers on the archipelago, even if some of the men rejected my creations as too ornate, more suited for a woman than a man—but as that day was still some years off, I decided to train my new ward in the skill. I had designed my first quiver when I was just a boy, a gift for my father, but had made the mistake of decorating the leather pouch with colored fabrics stolen from my mother’s design box. He considered such gaudy additions an affront to his manhood and ripped them off, belittling me and throwing the rich fabrics into the fire. He continued to use the plain quiver for many years afterward, however, even when he took to the mountains to await the arrival of the invaders, for it had an integrity to the design that even he, who had a revulsion for beauty in inanimate objects, could not deny.
Of course, even now I forced myself not to go quite as far with my designs as I would like, as I needed to trade my products with hunters and they preferred arrows with no extra frippery or adornments. I made exactly what they wanted, plain belt or back quivers, the occasional ground quiver, but sometimes a tribesman might quietly suggest that he would be willing to carry something a little more elaborate across his back and I would embrace the freedom that such a commission could bring, sewing pieces of broken glass or ornamental stone into the leather, crafting a fur trim to set off the design, a green belt stitched around the base.
Try as I might to train Diego, however, he was entirely lacking in artistic skill. Yes, he could make half my tools disappear with a dexterity that irritated me and then point across the room to a buffalo hide in the corner of my workshop, under which I would find them, but when I attempted to teach him the art of sewing and cutting, his fingers were worse than useless things. I finally gave in, hoping that my own son would one day show more agility with his hands than this foundling.
Still, we were affectionate toward each other and I enjoyed his presence in the workshop during the day, his idle chatter and his tales of life among the Yaghan people of the Southern Cone.
And then, one day, seeing how his body was changing before my eyes, I realized the time had come for him to be initiated into manhood and I spoke to the elder of our tribe, Qui’ho, who agreed that Diego should be initiated into the Selk’nam people, despite the otherness of his birth, an honor that was rarely afforded to outsiders. But the boy had ingratiated himself among us and we were happy to call him one of our own.
* * *
• • •
The initiation, which we called hain, took place in the largest hut at the edge of our village and, in preparation, a dozen men arrived dressed as spirits of the underworld, settling themselves in different parts of the darkened room while I dressed Diego in a tanned animal hide and led him toward the place of ceremony. I could tell that he was nervous about what was to come but impressed upon him the importance of undergoing this rite if he was to become a true member of our tribe and eventually be permitted to take a wife.
“At what age must that happen?” he asked, and I was surprised to hear anxiety in his tone rather than excitement. Most boys of his age looked forward to the moment when they might lie with a woman for the first time.
“Within the next year or two,” I told him. “I myself was married for the first time when I was not much older than you are now.”
“Must I marry?” he asked me, his voice low and tremulous.
“Of course,” I said. “It is the natural order of things.”
&nbs
p; “But might I not live alone? Or with one of my friends?”
I turned to him with a puzzled expression on my face. No man who came of age ever lived alone or in the company of other men. What strange thoughts appeared in this boy’s mind, I thought, choosing to ignore his question and putting his curious nature down to his Yaghan upbringing.
The hut appeared before us now and he hesitated.
“What will happen to me in there?” he asked tremulously.
“I cannot tell you that. You must enter and discover for yourself.”
He stepped forward, opened the door and, taking a deep breath for courage, walked inside.
I moved away, sitting on the ground in the shade of an ancient tree, and recalled my own hain many years earlier. The men were terrifying in the way they had roared about me, sweeping down as they whispered curses in my ears. They had poked me with heavy branches, whipping them hard against the back of my legs, and whenever any light appeared through the gaps of the stone, I was frightened by the ghoulish masks they wore upon their faces. Soon, however, I came to understand that each spirit could be tamed if I simply threw myself upon them and pulled their masks away. They were not demons at all, of course, only men, and men who would retreat to the corner of the hut when their true nature was exposed. When each one had been unmasked, they gathered in a circle around me, lighting sticks of incense, and spoke of how the world had been created and the small part that I played in its current incarnation. And then, at the end, the leader of these men, the Great Elder of our tribe, took his place behind me and whispered in my ear the legend of Spearthrower Owl, who had been venerated by the Mayan people a century earlier and whose image as a leader of men had been inscribed into the hieroglyphs that could be found upon stones in this part of the world. Spearthrower Owl was always among us, the elder whispered, sending shivers down my spine. He lived inside our souls, determining our destinies, watching every move we made. He was our great Overlord and the one who would ultimately decide whether we had lived our lives with honesty or shame.
Hours later, when Diego reappeared, I could see how altered he was by what he had experienced. He walked like a man now, not a boy, and in his eyes was a portion of the wisdom that each of us, as Selk’nam people, had acquired across the centuries. I felt a burst of pride to know that I had brought him to this place.
He bowed low when he approached me and I placed my hands upon his shoulders as the men from the village emerged from the hut, ready to embrace our newest tribesman.
“It’s over now?” asked Diego quietly, and I shook my head.
“Not quite,” I said, for there was one more part of the hain to come, one that involved a quick and unwelcome burst of pain. I had not spoken to him about this before but I felt certain that, looking around him at the men of our village, and comparing their bodies to his own, he must have known that there was one further initiation rite left. I pulled the animal hide from around his waist and, reaching down, took his manhood in my left hand. He flinched as I removed a sharp knife from my belt. As his father figure here, it would be my responsibility to perform the cut. “Look toward the heavens,” I instructed him. “The men will hold you tight. Breathe slowly and evenly. It will be quick, I promise. And then you will be ready to marry.”
I could see the panic in his eyes, the same panic that every boy who had gone through this ceremony had felt since the dawn of time.
“But I told you,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I don’t want to marry.”
* * *
• • •
Happy though I was with Diego’s initiation into the Selk’nam tribe, I continued to be concerned about the relationship between my wife, Sofia, and her daughter, Bonita. The girl had become deeply introverted since returning to the care of her mother, a state of mind I put down to the twin traumas of being used in a bestial fashion by her father and the fact that she had been partly responsible for his death and the death of her grandmother.
Daughters of our tribe never spoke to their elders with anything other than respect, but Bonita was that rarest of creatures who said what she wanted when she wanted. It was obvious that she resented Sofia for having abandoned her in the first place, even though it had been explained to her time and again that this was not her mother’s fault. With me, she was more polite, and with her younger brother, she was friendly; it was only the relationship with her mother that caused problems.
“I am considering taking her on the Great Walk,” Sofia whispered to me one night as we lay in our cot. “Just the two of us. It might be good for her.”
I turned to my wife in surprise. I knew of only a few people who had completed the Great Walk and each one had been a man. It could take many weeks, even months, to complete.
“You would be the first females to undertake such a journey,” I said.
“Would the elders object? Would they stand in our way?”
I considered it and shook my head. “Not if I gave my consent,” I replied. “And if you wish it, Wife, then you must do it. Where would you go?”
“To the southern tip of the archipelago,” she replied. “And then we would sail to the islands beyond and complete our expedition on the rock that lies at the very end of the world. If she and I look into the water there and pledge our souls to the gods, then perhaps I can exorcize the demons that lurk within her soul.”
I felt a growing anxiety. Such a trip would surely prove dangerous and I feared any harm coming to her.
“And what of Rafael?” I asked. “Who will take care of the boy while you are gone?”
“You,” she replied, smiling at me, and I touched her nose in a moment of love. Who had ever heard of a man looking after a child? I would be mocked so deeply by the tribe that I would never be able to show my face again. But still, he was too young yet to be left alone. “We may be gone for three months,” she told me. “And if we are, then you must take another woman in my place.”
I shook my head.
“I would never do such a thing,” I said. “I am not my father. I do not live by his values.”
“But you have needs, Husband,” she protested. “And if I am not here—”
“Then I will await your safe return,” I replied. I was unusual among the men of my tribe in that I did not long for the affections of multiple women. I would remain chaste until she came back to me, as I had done after the death of my first wife and, for a time, after the murder of my second.
And so, a few days later, my wife and adopted daughter left our hut together, with provisions enough only to see them through till nightfall. After that, their destinies would lie in their own hands. Rafael wept and even Diego looked moved, but I held my head high and wished them both good fortune on their quest. Bonita was a damaged girl, but one who had never asked for that trauma to be inflicted upon her. It was right for her mother to help her in this way.
NAMIBIA
A.D. 1471
A YEAR TO THE DAY after Shakini and Beka left our village to journey through the mountain ranges in the west country, it occurred to me that I was probably the only person who still thought of them and believed that they would return safely someday. Our son, Rafiki, never spoke of his mother anymore and, if he sought a maternal figure at all, they were innumerable within our tribe, while Dembe, the foundling I had taken into our home, knew better than to mention her name. Once, he made the mistake of saying that he prayed she had met her end in a peaceful fashion and I struck him so hard that he fell sprawling to the ground, the only act of violence I had ever inflicted on him, and the wounded expression on his face as he looked up at me only intensified the shame of my actions.
“Adopted father,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I apologize for my insensitivity. I only meant that when death came for her—”
“Death has not come for her,” I insisted, striding toward him in such a fury that he scuttled b
ack toward the wall. “If she was dead, I would know it. I would feel her loss within my blood.”
“Of course,” he replied, nodding quickly. “And she will most certainly appear again over the hills someday when her journey is completed.”
I could tell from his tone that he did not believe this for even a moment, and later, when my temper had calmed, I regretted my brutality but repeated that I was certain both were still alive and that they would find their way home eventually. He never made the mistake of referring to my wife in the past tense again.
My grief, an emotion all too familiar to me, was almost overwhelming. Twice before I had suffered such loss and twice I had survived, but I was not sure that I could endure a third ordeal. Unlike when my first two wives had been taken from me, however, I could not spend my time wallowing in self-pity, for there was Rafiki to think of. The boy was four years old and a happy presence in my life. I could not fail him. I had no choice but to remain strong.
Each morning, I made my way to my workshop to craft masts for the trading ships that docked in or departed from our ports, but before leaving our tent, I would stand outside and turn my head slowly in all directions, listening for Shakini’s voice, hopeful that this would be the day when I saw her walking along the flatlands in my direction, but each morning, I was disappointed. I repeated my actions at night, standing alone until the sun went down and the winds forced me back indoors. When I slept, my dreams were filled with disturbing images of the woman I loved being savaged by lions or taken away as a slave.
It did not help when one of the elders from our village, Vital Quihozo, came to see me and made a proposal that I could not possibly accept. Vital Quihozo was an old man, the oldest in our tribe, the skin on his face so lined with the passing of time that it resembled a ghoulish mask. Still, he remained in good health and, only recently, the youngest of his wives had given birth to his latest son. No one knew for certain how many children he had fathered—I was acquainted with at least twenty of his offspring, and they were only the ones who continued to live in our village—and it seemed at times as if his direct descendants outnumbered every other family group. Still, I admired and respected him and his presence in my tent was a great honor.
