The Shaman's Apprentice

by B. Muze

  “Go with him,” she ordered. Then she turned her back and walked away from a daughter who no longer existed for her.

  The child drew back, terrified, from the great holy man. She looked around, confused.

  “Mother,” she cried after the disappearing woman. Polisa did not turn or pause. Some of her sisters looked back over their shoulders, as confused as she, but they did not dare come back for her.

  The child started to cry.

  Yaku stared at her, bewildered. He had not thought beyond obtaining his apprentice. Now that he had her, he did not know what to do. What had his master done? But that had been different. His family had been honored. He had been a middle son in a craftsman’s family, paraded through the village and feasted lavishly. He had been much older than this child — nearly nine, which was an appropriate age for an apprentice, yet his mother had come with him, made his bed, prepared his clothes, and returned in the morning to fix him and his master breakfast. For weeks she had served two houses until she was sure he was adjusted. Then, slowly, she had left him alone. Even so, he had been frightened and unsure.

  Yaku looked down at the crying child, her tiny hand dwarfed in his huge one, pulling away from him as far as her arm would let her. She was just a baby, he suddenly realized. What would he do with her? What could he tell her that she would understand? Where would she sleep tonight? He only had one sleeping mat. She could not sleep with him. If he rolled over, he might crush her. What would she wear? She came to him with only the bare tanned hide on her back and her woven under-dress and a pair of shoes already too tight. What a fragile, little creature she was! How could her mother have been so foolish to let him take her when he did not know the slightest thing about babies?

  “Come,” he ordered, tugging at her arm. The child hung back. He started toward the men’s path, dragging her. Then, realizing her limitations, he changed directions toward the women’s path. It was the first time in all his adulthood he had used that way, especially going down, but it was dark now. Maybe no one would see.

  The village was a warm and inviting place that evening, alive with song and chat. Fires glowed merrily from open doors and windows. Crowds gathered around the houses of the newlyweds and caroused loudly, laughing and yelling at the slightest sound from within and telling bawdy tales to distract the lovers or beating drums in the pulse of love to encourage them. Children ran from house to house reciting their new names to any who would listen. Remains from the feasts were parceled and given to friends and elders, with much congratulations and good wishes and pleasant gossip exchanged. The older men made great and glorious, impossible plans over pipes of fragrant herbs, the smoke rising through the air like prayers.

  Traditionally the shaman wandered the village, laughing and celebrating with them. He had learned to draw the satisfaction of his life from the happiness of his people. Tonight, however, the terrified child he held in tow distracted him.

  For a moment, he thought of taking her back to her family. Let them have her for another year, give him time to prepare. Just one more year — but the spirits had been disappointed this morning when she had not come. They had been angry, blaming him for keeping her away. The Trintoa had not been successful and the upcoming year would be bad. For his people’s sake, he would not delay.

  “You took her I see,” said Massern Leader, nodding toward the child.

  “She is my servant for a year,” Yaku answered with unyielding pride.

  Massern laughed. He and his wife had raised five living children of their own and eight of his grandchildren had already taken their first names.

  “Much good may she do you,” he wished the shaman. “By the end of the year, I predict, you will be wise enough to choose a boy.”

  “It is not my choice,” replied Yaku Shaman, coldly.

  Massern laughed again and left the shaman to his fate.

  Yaku pulled back the front door flap from his little house and pushed the child inside. The fire was already lit in its place in the corner, under the high point of the sloping roof where the smoke filtered out through the opening above. His dinner heated slowly beside it in the little hot-box nestled in the ashes, and his sleeping mat was already laid out for him and waiting.

  “Are you hungry?” he demanded of the child.

  She looked up at him fearfully and did not respond. He took the bowl from the hot-box and set it in front of her, giving her a sitting place in the corner. She looked at it, then back at him and did not move to touch it.

  “You may eat it if you’d like,” he told her.

  She continued to watch him, warily.

  “Do you speak yet?” asked Yaku, worry making his face seem sterner. She had sung. He had not considered that she might not speak, but she was young.

  To his relief, she nodded, though she still said nothing.

  “Then do you want the food, or don’t you?”

  She shook her head, slightly. Thankfully he grabbed it back and began to eat it himself. She watched him from the corner where she huddled, eyes wide like a frightened animal. It made him uncomfortable to be watched so. Everything about this child made him uneasy.

  “You will sleep there tonight,” he said, indicating his sleeping mat. “Tomorrow — we shall see.”

  She crawled to it quietly, carefully keeping as much distance from the holy man as the room would let her.

  “When do I go home?” she ventured to ask, pulling the blanket up in front of her as if it were a shield.

  “This is your home now,” he replied.

  She cringed deeper into the blanket.

  “Why?” she whispered. It was only one little word, but it seemed to take all her courage to say it.

  The holy man frowned at her, his big, stern face twisting into something terrifying.

  “You serve me now,” he answered.

  “You cannot curse me,” she said softly, more to herself than to him, “because I haven’t got a name.”

  Yaku Shaman scowled, puzzled by her words. She disappeared under the blankets and softly cried herself to sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Bad Beginnings

  When the shaman awoke the next morning, the child was sobbing still. He had slept all night on the ground in front of the door, and she had been so afraid to go out past him that she had wet his sleeping mat instead. The woman who came to bring his breakfast, a good-natured old wife with an ever-wagging tongue, cheerfully cleaned the bed while the shaman took his ‘servant’ to the baths to wash. When they returned, there were two clean bedrolls, and the woman was dishing another bowl of vegetable and cereal soup, for the young girl.

  “Polisa had an extra,” she said, laughing, as she nodded to the bedroll. “She should have thought of it herself, but then she has much to think about these days, with Katira married and another baby coming, or so they say. She refuses to talk about it, but she doesn’t deny it…” On and on.

  The child watched her fascinated. How could anyone talk so freely to the holy man? With so many words one or two might easily be wrong, yet this woman seemed completely unafraid. The shaman ate his breakfast, silently ignoring the chatterer. The child was sorry when the breakfast was over, and the woman left. She wished she could have left with her.

  Her education commenced that day. Yaku Shaman led her back to the eastern hill.

  “We start here,” he announced, “because this is the place of beginnings.”

  He closed his eyes and sat still and silent. The child wanted to go to her tree, but she was afraid with the holy man here. It was probably because he had caught her sitting in it before that he was so angry with her now. Instead, she stood next to him, fidgeting.

  “Sit down,” he ordered, “close your eyes and listen.”

  “To what?”

  “To whatever there is to hear.”

  She sat down and closed her eyes, but she could not relax to listen. The breeze came up behind her and tickled her neck. He wanted to play. She smiled. She liked her friend, the breeze
. When he tickled her neck again, she reached behind to grab him, but of course, he was already far away, laughing.

  “Hold still!” demanded the holy man, angrily.

  The breeze came back and blew the shaman’s long, white hair into his face, covering his eyes. The holy man waved it away, irritated, while the little girl bit her lip to stop her laugh.

  “What did you hear?” asked the shaman, sternly.

  The little girl shrugged, unable to answer.

  “Then listen until you can tell me. This place is full of sounds. You should find one that I haven’t noticed yet.”

  She listened closer. As she heard things she identified them to the shaman, but it seemed he’d heard them all.

  “Deeper,” he kept saying, “You must listen deeper.”

  She did not understand what he meant. The game quickly frustrated her.

  Sensing this, the holy man shifted his lesson into stories. He told her of the beginning of the first world and all the worlds since, the beginning of the people, the planting of the sacred tree, and the settling of the village. These were stories her father had told them in the evenings, when their work in the fields was finished and he could work on leather strips for the animals or sharpen weapons and tools while she sorted goytew feathers and her sisters wove and sewed and worked on the food for the next day’s meals. She had loved to listen to her father’s stories, for he always told them well, with a sparkle in his eye, his hands tracing the visions, and many voices in his speech. Yaku Shaman told them straight and solemn, in a manner dry and well-rehearsed. He left out all the more fanciful details her father had added and included many other things she did not understand.

  “No,” she kept wanting to correct him, but the look in his eyes held her silent.

  “You will learn these stories,” he told her.

  “Then I will tell them better,” she quietly promised herself.

  They climbed down for their midday meal, served by a taciturn, pinch-faced, little woman who said nothing the whole time she was there. Yaku Shaman ignored her the same way he had ignored the talking woman that morning.

  Quietly, the child amused herself by playing the listening game. She was amazed at how many sounds filled the world, even if she wasn’t listening “deeply.” Her ears stopped at the shouts and laughs of children outside — friends whom she would play with now if she could only get away. She would tease Coligu about his new name because he was so proud of it. She would tell him it did not fit, even though she knew it did, and he would laugh and say she could not know because she didn’t have a name at all. Then next year, when she got hers, he’d tease her and say it did not fit, whatever it was, and make her feel special with the attention. She would have liked to have teased Rirylia too. She had been her best friend for two years. But Rirylia had warned her, before she got her name, that once she was a real person she’d not have time for non-persons. Secretly, the child hoped her ex-friend would be very lonely without her this year.

  She snuck away when she was excused to relieve herself, and tried to join her friends. They were gathered around an old bofimer, taking turns riding her, as many as could get on. They stopped their sport and watched her curiously as she approached.

  “Why are you sleeping with the shaman,” asked a boy her age.

  She shrugged.

  “Are you sick?” asked another girl. Those who were sick often stayed with the shaman as he healed them, or helped them die, whatever the spirits allowed.

  “I don’t think so,” answered the child.

  “You look okay,” said the boy, “but maybe you’re sick in here.” He tapped his head.

  “I am not,” the child flared angrily. The other children laughed and started taunting her with rude names for the insane or possessed.

  “Spinning Cloud — that’s what they’ll name you next year,” yelled one boy. He gave her a hard shove that sent her landing on her butt.

  She jumped up, her fingers curled into fists, but the boy was looking up behind her, backing away frightened. A huge hand caught her arm and the shaman angrily dragged her back to the eastern hill.

  “You will no longer play with children,” he told her, his voice hard as rock.

  She clenched her jaw to keep back the angry words and obediently followed him.

  “If anyone’s insane it’s the holy man,” she thought to herself, knowing such words could never be said aloud. She wished they could. The things her friends had said had hurt her deeply and she wanted to hear them contradicted.

  The shaman explained the Trintoa and sang its holy chants to her. She barely heard him, still fuming about her friends. Then he ordered her to sing them. She could not. He made her sing them again with him, over and over. Quickly her anger was forgotten with this new game, but the words were meaningless to her, and her attention soon wandered. She learned the words swiftly and just as swiftly forgot them. By sunset she could sing all the chants. An hour later, her mind had let them go.

  “This is useless,” growled the shaman to himself. The child cringed at the anger she heard in his voice.

  “This is the simplest of things,” he told her, frustrated, “why can you not learn? Are you stupid?”

  “It makes no sense,” she answered defensively.

  “It does to the spirits,” he said.

  “Then let the spirits sing it.”

  She covered her mouth quickly, in horror, but the impolite words had already escaped. The shaman let them go with only a frown.

  They worked deep into the night, until the child’s eyes fell closed more than she could keep them open. The shaman tried to work her longer, but it was useless.

  The next morning Yaku awoke to find the child gone.

  He searched the toilet areas, the bathing houses, the lake, the places near his house. She was not to be found.

  “Have you seen my servant?” he asked the young, pretty wife, whose turn it was to fix them breakfast and straighten his house. She had not.

  He walked quickly to Takan’s farm and asked Polisa.

  “Your servant is not here,” answered Polisa angrily, but she sent two of her older daughters to look for her.

  “They will bring her to you as soon as she is found,” Polisa assured him, her embarrassment thinning her voice.

  Misa found her first, as the girl was coming down from the eastern hill. She grabbed her little sister and shook her, heartily mad.

  “How dare you run away from your master — from a shaman?! Do you know how shameful that is?”

  “I was coming back,” argued the girl, defensively.

  “But why did you go?”

  The girl shrugged. How could she explain? She had just wanted to see her tree, that was all. It had missed her singing to it. She wanted to hear the baby breathe and know it was happy and safe.

  “Aren’t you happy with the shaman?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s mean and scary.”

  “Does he beat you?”

  “No…”

  “Does he starve you?”

  The little girl shook her head.

  “Then how is he mean?”

  “He just is!”

  Misa looked at her thoughtfully.

  “I think you’re mean,” she told her little sister.

  “I am not!” the girl objected.

  “I think you’re being mean to him. You run away. You make him think you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t like him!”

  “But you haven’t given him a chance. It’s very hard for him to live with someone. He’s never had a little girl before. He’s never had anyone. He doesn’t know what to do.”

  “He knows everything. He’s a shaman.”

  “He doesn’t know you. All he knows is that you are a mean little girl who doesn’t like him and who runs away and makes everyone think he’s a bad master when he hasn’t done anything bad to you at all.”

  The little girl stared at the ground, confus
ed and ashamed. No one ever won an argument with Misa, not when she wanted to win. She could make up her mind in any ridiculous way, and it always made sense while she explained it. She always sounded right, even when you were sure she had to be wrong.

  “Come on,” said Misa, leading her back to the shaman’s house. The little girl meekly followed.

  The shaman watched them approach, his face frowning terribly. The little girl suddenly decided that running away in earnest might be a good idea after all. Misa gave her arm a sharp yank and forced her to follow.

  “Where?” demanded the shaman of Misa, with but a single nod for thanks.

  “At the foot of the eastern hill.”

  The shaman took the little girl’s hand awkwardly in his own. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared at her.

  “May I speak to you privately, Yaku Shaman?” asked Misa politely. Her younger sister’s heart lifted with the hopes that Misa would find a way to free her from this angry giant. Yaku Shaman nodded and sent his servant in to eat her cold breakfast. He walked with Misa south, toward the woods.

  “Speak,” the Shaman ordered, when they were out of any other’s hearing.

  “You are a very wise and revered man, Yaku Shaman,” Misa, Polisa’s second oldest, began carefully. It was her first time speaking to one of his age and position. She was very aware of her youth, just barely a woman. He towered over her, looking down at her face, waiting for her to continue.

  “Your spirits tell you things that we cannot know, but perhaps there are things that we know that they do not, or at least do not wish to tell.”

  “What do you want to say?” prompted Yaku, his hard voice doing little to ease the woman’s timidity.

  “My sister…your servant, is a very good little girl. She is a little odd, very imaginative, but her heart is strong and generous and kind, and she will love you if you will let her.”

  Yaku watched Misa silently, his stern expression giving her no encouragement.

  “She is only frightened of you,” Misa continued. “We have all heard stories of what shamans can do. With some children it is good to frighten them, but with her…if you scare her, she will run away or fight, but if you love her, she will love you back and do what she thinks will please you. And if she ever thinks you need her she’ll always try to help you. I was very sick two years ago. You healed me, remember?”