by B. Muze
The ghost grabbed at her again and caught her. The bone fingers gripped tighter and tighter, slowly pressing through the flesh of her arm. Jovai struggled and tried to push her away, but her arm went through the body as it would through mist. Only the grip was solid, and the fingers could not be pried. The ghost turned silently upstream and pointed. Jovai felt the pressure on her arm, pushing her that way, but the figure did not move to drag her. It only stood and pointed.
Through the mist, a voice was calling in a language Jovai could not understand. It was Gilix. It had to be. Jovai yelled back to her, calling for help in any language, in every language she could think of. The pressure on her arm tightened, and the push grew stronger, more insistent. She felt herself forced in the direction the ghost pointed, first one terrified step, then another.
Gilix’s voice grew louder, more frantic in response to Jovai’s yell. Jovai could hear her running through the forest, coming closer, almost there. The pressure on her arm was pain. She felt the sticky wetness of blood dripping down her flesh. She grabbed for the bone hand, but though it held her still, there was nothing for her to grab.
Then Gilix was there — a dark shadow growing darker, yelling in fright and concern. She crashed into Jovai before she saw her and they both went sprawling onto the soft, wet earth.
“Run!” yelled Jovai. She grabbed the girl and pulled her up with panic-driven strength. Gilix followed, unquestioningly, running after Jovai back to the village.
It wasn’t until they were back among the cheerful crowd of voices and the sounds of people eagerly working, building a new life, that Jovai was able to halt her flight. Her lungs ached with every burning breath, and sweat poured over her body. She looked around for Gilix and saw the breathless girl tiredly trailing her. All the energy she had left was in her eyes, staring at Jovai with great concern.
They stood together silently for a moment, catching their breaths. People hurried past about their work although one or two called friendly greetings to Gilix and several glanced curiously at Jovai. Gilix took Jovai’s arm and lightly touched where the ghost had grabbed. Jovai winced in pain. Large blue bruises were already welling up and five deep holes, four in a curved line and a fifth one on the other side of her arm, were bleeding.
“What?” her nod indicated Jovai’s arm.
“Ghost — woman ghost of the white people,” Jovai answered. “Did you see her?”
Gilix frowned, perhaps not understanding all Jovai was saying, and shook her head.
“Come,” she instructed. She took Jovai’s good arm and led her to the healer’s tent.
Gilix stood at the entrance to the tent and called. The flap did not open. No one answered. She called again. Still no answer.
“Merha,” she said. “Sit.”
Jovai sat down outside the tent, glad to do so.
“I see he,” she gestured vaguely, then pointing at Jovai repeated, “Sit.”
“Merha,” Jovai confirmed.
Gilix smiled, pleased, then ran off.
Gilix was gone a long time. People passed by but few seemed to notice Jovai and no one tried to speak to her. The sun started to brighten, or the haze to thin, but either way, the air grew warmer, and there was a feeling of contentment all around arising from a people tired of wandering, happy to be home again…
Jovai awoke confused by the strange brown-red faces staring down at her. One was a pretty girl with long, auburn hair and the other was an older man with a ring of silver hair around his head. They were talking to each other in an unknown language, talking about her.
“Merha,” said Jovai, her memory returning. She had slept on her side in the dirt and leaves outside the healer’s tent. Now she pushed herself up to sitting and nodded respectfully to the healer.
He was shirtless, with streaks of dirt and sweat decorating his thin torso. He wrung his hands nervously and wiped them on his dirty leggings, all the while muttering softly. He knelt beside Jovai and examined the wounds on her arm. Twice Gilix spoke to him as if answering a question. What she said the first time made him frown. What she said the second time made him blanche, and he hurriedly sent her away.
When she returned, it was with Difsat.
“Well, newborn,” he greeted Jovai cheerfully, “it seems there’s no finish to the anxiety you cause.”
The healer directed his attention toward her arm, twisting it gently so that he could see all the marks.
“What happened?” the shaman demanded of Jovai, ignoring the endless string of words from the healer.
“A ghost, by the river.”
The shaman frowned at her, disbelieving.
“It was like a Gicok woman at first. It grabbed my arm. When I tried to push it away, it was as if no one was there, but its hand turned to bones I couldn’t touch and held me harder. It was trying to push me along — up river. Then Gilix came, and I was free, so we ran back.”
“A ghost did this?” He looked at Jovai as if she were crazy.
“A ghost,” she insisted.
The shaman turned to Gilix and questioned her. She said something briefly. The shaman asked her another question and her eyes went big with wonder. She glanced at Jovai then back to the shaman and shook her head.
“Gilix saw nothing holding you,” the shaman told her.
“There was thick mist…” Jovai explained.
“She saw no ghost.”
“They are there, Difsat. The Gicok has seen them too. They are dangerous, and something must be done about them.”
“Our people have put you through a lot. Many times a period of rest is needed after the night of death.”
“You think I dreamed it? You think I dreamed this?” she held her arm up for him to see better.
“The healer will bandage that, then you can rest,” he told her gently.
“And you will do nothing to protect your people?”
“I will talk to the Hawk Clan,” he promised. “They will decide if there is action to be taken.”
“They are your warriors?” asked Jovai.
Difsat nodded.
“And what can warriors do against ghosts?”
“If protection is needed, they will provide it. That is our way.”
Jovai stared at him, wanting to argue, but with nothing to say.
“You rest,” he encouraged her again. “You are newborn, our baby. Babies don’t work. When the moon is full we will give you a name, a family will welcome you, and you may request consideration for a clan. Until then you have nothing to do but eat and sleep and learn our language from Gilix.” He smiled at the pretty girl and chuckled. “No more talk about ghosts or people will think you’re crazy. Since I welcomed you that will make me look bad. You understand?”
Jovai nodded, discouraged.
“Hmm,” he grunted. He lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Good.” Then he was gone.
It was already afternoon before Gilix led Jovai back to her tent. Through the confusion of the tents and the morning mist, now finally burned away, Jovai could not have found it on her own. They entered to find the Gicok, sleeping on his bedroll. The breakfast basket had been rifled through, and half the food was gone.
“Better hot,” said Gilix as she offered the remaining food to Jovai.
“If it is from your hands, it will be good,” responded Jovai. Gilix blushed and smiled.
They started the language lesson with the breakfast, Gilix pointing to each item of food, giving its name, then explaining verbs like “cut,” “peel,” “smell,” “taste,” and finally “eat”. She was an attentive teacher and had a charming way about her that made the lesson like a game children play.
At some unknown point, the Gicok awoke. Jovai became aware of him only when he laughed at the silly gestures Gilix was making to try to explain a type of food gone bad. He startled both of them, but it was obvious he had been awake for some while and had not meant to interrupt.
“You should learn too,” Jovai told him. At that, both he and Gilix frowned. Jo
vai smiled to see what she suspected was the first time a Gicok and a Kolvas were ever in agreement. The Gicok grunted and rolled over, his back toward them, pretending to go back to sleep. Gilix sighed with relief and continued with the lesson.
“I’m tired now,” Jovai interrupted her. “Thank you Gilix, but now I need to sleep.”
Jovai had to repeat herself more slowly, with gestures for sleeping before Gilix could understand.
“Ah!” she said at last, nodding. She gave Jovai the Kolvas words and left her for the day.
Once she had left, the Gicok turned back to Jovai and said, “I stay.”
Jovai did not look up from her task of unrolling her sleeping mat. She merely nodded, saying nothing.
“I no leave Dolkati Friend.”
Jovai threw herself down on the sleeping mat and sighed. She would awaken just before sunset to draw the protection circle again. Until then she had to sleep.
“What that?” asked the Gicok. Jovai did not need to open her eyes to know he had seen her bandaged arm. She felt him touch the bandage lightly. He was so close to her that she could feel the heat of his body and the stirring of his breath. “Enemy of my people,” she thought, but she didn’t fear him now. She opened her eyes and glanced up toward him.
“They hurt you?” he demanded angrily.
“No. Not Kolvas.” She closed her eyes again with a deep, slow breath. “I’ll tell you later,” she promised. “Now I need to sleep.”
Chapter 29
River of Blood
The moon had been swimming in the night for many hours before Jovai awoke. There was an odd tension in the air. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck were rising. Nothing moved through the darkness of the tent. There was no sound, not even of breath. Slowly, quietly she exhaled and inhaled carefully, her nostrils inspecting the air as it passed. Something was wrong.
She reached out quietly with her awareness toward the Gicok’s mat. He was gone. It was already late at night. She had overslept, and now she was alone.
A thousand explanations passed through her mind: he had needed to relieve himself, or he was hungry, looking for food or their packs and horses which she had forgotten to ask about or simply exploring. He had slept much of the day — it was natural he would feel restless now. He was a grown man, a warrior. He could take care of himself. And yet he was still weak from his wounds, so he wouldn’t be causing trouble…she hoped. Who knew what he would do? Who knew what the Kolvas might do to him if they thought he meant harm? And the ghosts — she knew even less about ghosts. But what could she do? A failed shaman, a failed adult — not quite a child but not a woman — a nothing. She couldn’t even take care of herself. She had no spirits any longer to call on. All she could do was draw circles in the dirt and hope they would keep the evil away. It was late, but she could draw the circle now, and draw it again when the Gicok returned — if he returned.
She had a duty to this man. He was probably all right, but she could at least look and listen, to make sure.
She moved the tent flap aside and pushed herself out into the cold, clear night. She had expected mist, but there was none this night. Through the moonlight she could see the tents all around hers, filled with sleepers. Somewhere at her feet, there was still the circle she had drawn the night before. Even with the moonlight, she could not see it until she had knelt and put her hand close to where she knew it would be. It had already been broken with many crossings, she knew, but still she hesitated before crossing it again.
She listened to the breathing of sleepers in their tents. She listened for the sounds of people stirring and heard them, more than one. They were large, probably men from the way they moved, but not the Gicok. He would still be weakened. The shifting she heard had no sign of pain or hesitation. The people she heard watched, alert, but were not at all nervous as the Gicok probably would be. To them everything was normal, no danger expected. The Gicok, in a camp full of his declared enemies, would not be so relaxed.
Jovai forced her body into a practiced calm. She made her mind quieter, more open. He had to be somewhere. She just had to listen better, deeper. In all the many years of practicing this exercise, it had never been so hard. To listen deeply she had to leave herself open and, for the first time, she realized just how vulnerable that forced her to be.
She reached out with her awareness, let it expand into the night, like the moonlight, everywhere. As she was floating, she came up against a strange presence that would not let her awareness pass. It was something vaguely familiar, from some forgotten nightmare — something dark and hungry. She expanded along it to see how far it stretched. At first, it had seemed small, but it seemed to expand with her until it felt as if it were aware of her. Not just aware, but focused on her, surrounding her, closing in on her, and she found herself trapped within it. It was like a massive wall of hunger, pressing against her, trying to eat her alive…she remembered, suddenly, the darkness from the night of her failed shaman passage, when the traders had taken her, and fear rose within her.
“Help me,” she prayed to her spirits. “How do I escape this thing?”
She tried to pull away from it by quieting herself into shaman silence, very small, unobtrusive, with no particular sense of intent that might be heard, and let the space move her as though she were a speck, floating on its sea.
The dark hunger seemed to sense her withdrawing and closed quickly, like a muscle contracting. She kept herself calm, almost unconcerned, and waited for the break in the wall of its power that she hoped she would find. Then she was there — a tiny chink, a space made by the very intensity with which the hunger was contracting to hold her. It was as if it had pulled tight in so many places that this place was, for a second only, open. She slipped quickly through and was free of the strange darkness.
She was herself again, eyes snapped open, body alert and ready for attack. Her hands dropped to the ground to help her up and met a sliminess all around her. She brought her hands to her face and saw them covered in blood. She was sitting in a pool of blood.
She jumped up and away from where the blood had gathered around her. The darkness of night quickly covered it, but a new pool formed as the blood flowed down her clothes, inside and out, to gather at her feet. She did a quick check of her body, searching for the wound. There were the scratches still on her arm. The bandage had come loose and they bled a little, but not enough to puddle at her feet. She felt no dizziness or weakness from loss of her own blood. Nowhere else was there any wound. She was not bleeding in the woman way. The blood was not her own.
Through the dirt trickled the blood in which she had been sitting. It was trailing her, like a living thing, seeking to join with the new pool forming at her feet. Again, she jumped away and the puddle she had just left quivered and reformed itself, before her eyes, as a little stream flowing toward her.
Her stomach heaved inside of her but time had left little to spill forth.
“I must wash,” she thought. Could she find her way to the river? She had to. “I have to clean this off.” The thought obsessed her.
She began to walk, leaving puddles of blood in every footprint — puddles that turned to little streams, joined by the other streams, following her. She began to run, and the streaming blood now chased her like a small river, growing all the time bigger, flowing faster, catching up.
The trees parted before her, and the river flowed through the night, dark and slow. It was not the river she remembered from that morning. There should be trees, thick and tall, holding the moon away from the earth but letting its light slip into the sweet, sparkling water. Where were the trees? They were on this side only, but they were gnarled now. They had hollows of dark ash and wood which was dry and splintered and the only leaves were at her feet where the blood was again pooling. These leaves were withered and dead, half-way to humus. That was on this side, where she could see. Across the river, there was nothing, only darkness. She might have thought the dark river was as wide as forever, but at s
ome point, it no longer moved and all was still, an empty blackness.
The stream of blood that had chased her now surrounded her again until she was ankle deep in it. Then it reached out to the dark river. The dark river expanded toward it, and, when the waters touched and flowed together, she could see they were both the same. The river of blood! Where had she heard that before?
The blood swirled around her, up to her knees. Had the river moved or had she? For now she was within it. She looked back toward the bank where she had been standing. There were others standing there, pale skinned, pale eyes watching her with uncanny stillness. They seemed to be floating away, farther and farther.
“I can’t go back. They’ll kill me! But what is on the other bank?”
And the answer came, “Death.”
A high-pitched cry, barely audible, shattered the silence. Jovai heard the flutter of wings around her. She had heard that before, in the night of terror.
“Why am I here?” she asked.
“An answer to your prayer,” came the soundless voice through the rustle of invisible wings. “A way to be free of that which haunts you. Did you run from or to?”
“I was running away.”
“From what?”
“From the blood. It was fouling me. It was everywhere. It chased me…”
“You ran from the river of blood to the river of blood.” The voice was calm, passionless. It merely stated a fact.
“I wanted to wash myself — to be clean again.”
The blood was now above her waist and rising quickly. Without moving she had been transported a great distance from either shore. The Gicok ghosts were little more than pale specks against a black cloth.
“This is life. This is death,” said the whisper of wings. “To run from one is to run from the other. They are the same.”
“I don’t understand!”
“The beginning, the ending are only gestures to define the existence. The existence is all.”
“And the existence is blood?” It didn’t make any sense.
