Great Sky Woman

by Steven Barnes

  Work is life. Life is work. The same countless tasks supported all the boma now, as they had before he left, and would long after Frog’s flesh returned to the mountain. He was content to have returned to the place of his childhood, happy to see his old friends and cousins once again.

  As he had hoped and as his uncle had promised, Glimmer was a fine wife.

  Their days were filled with labor, their nights with song and story and love. Frog found no greater pleasure than lying with Glimmer beneath the stars, dreaming of the children they would raise together. They spent quarters and whole nights there, gazing up at Great Sky’s unimaginable heights or into the eyes of the ancestors themselves. He tried to point out the faces in the clouds above them, but despite his patient teaching, she never saw them. Still, he was content.

  At such times, whether gods existed or whether the dead lived again atop Great Sky mattered little to Frog. What mattered was this life, here and now, in this world of earth and blood. It was all he could touch, so it was all that he chose to care about.

  And far more than a younger Frog would have believed, it was good.

  One day two moons past Spring Gathering, T’Cori followed three paces behind Stillshadow, striding in her mentor’s footprints, as she traveled to Fire boma. It would have been impossible for the novice healer not to see Frog and his new wife, Glimmer. She had not seen her rescuer in almost two years, but despite the intensity of the time they had shared, they merely nodded to each other as the dream dancers went about their healing and teaching.

  Still, no matter how she tried to lose herself in the ritual ceremonies attending Stillshadow’s work, T’Cori could not stop from glancing at the young man and his wife.

  That is not your world, she reminded herself again and again. But as she danced, sang, healed, told the stories binding their people together, blessed Fire boma’s children and taught the women of herbs and sacred six-legged, again and again Frog came into her mind. And all her training and prayer could not stop the pain.

  In Fire boma’s meeting hut, T’Cori and Stillshadow shared sleeping and storage space, and a cook-fire for the preparation of food and medicine.

  As she knelt, preparing their evening meal, T’Cori fumed about Frog. Despite her best intentions, she fantasized about killing his ugly little wife, Glimmer.

  “What is it, daughter?” Stillshadow asked, noting her student’s distraction.

  T’Cori ground her teeth. “I wish to see her dead.”

  Stillshadow pushed a leaf-wrapped yam into the ashes. “And how would this happy event come about?”

  “Poison,” T’Cori said, happily contemplating her rival’s agonized contortions. “I am good with poisons.”

  “Ah,” said Stillshadow. “Grubs? Sour berries? Sunfruit root? There are many good choices. Her suffering would be long.”

  “Or I could wait until she goes to dig yams.”

  “And what then?”

  “Lie in wait,” she said, unable to conceal her grin. “I would make a knife of a lion’s tooth. Or a spear. And I would kill her with it, and all would think that she was slain by a cat.”

  “That is very clever,” Stillshadow admitted. “And would you then devour her, as would a cat?”

  T’Cori sank down, miserable. “Or perhaps I should just run away into the brush. No one would miss me.”

  “No, my dear,” Stillshadow agreed, poking the coals with the tip of her cane. “No one.”

  T’Cori sighed, allowing her pain and jealousy to run out of her like diseased milk.

  “Or I could stay with you?”

  “Yes,” the old woman said. “You could.”

  “And become the most powerful dream dancer who has ever lived.” T’Cori stamped her feet and managed to conjure a smile. “How angry Raven would be!” They laughed together, but then T’Cori glared at Stillshadow. “Don’t you feel anything?”

  “I feel many things,” Stillshadow said.

  “Didn’t you ever want a man of your own?”

  “Who would want such a smelly, useless thing as a man around after his root has softened?” she said. “I am content.”

  T’Cori considered carefully. Was her life so poor? In truth, the dancers were the heart of their people. These were her sisters. They laughed, and cried, and danced for one another, and made songs. For many, there was love as well, and if that had not yet been a part of her sexual life, who could say what the future held? “Then I, too, will be content.”

  “That is probably best,” said Stillshadow, and handed her a basket of potatoes and greens. “Make soup.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  In recent days the zebra had been slow and fat, the baboons suicidally curious. As a happy result, there was meat for all to share. The arrival of Stillshadow and her apprentice had energized Fire boma, and the boma reciprocated with all the hospitality it could muster.

  Mothers carried their children to listen to the wise women and study their wisdom. They learned tales from the other major bomas, and demonstrated the dances learned in dreams.

  Frog lurked around the edges of those gatherings when he could, watching the strange small girl as she swirled and angled her body for story-spinning, remembering their time together out on the savannah. And his new wife, in turn, watched him.

  Glimmer prepared a delicious dinner that night, baking yams and spring hare in a clay ball, breaking it open only when he sat down to eat, so wisps of savory steam nearly overwhelmed him.

  He ate greedily, and as he did he noticed that Glimmer merely nibbled, as if she had no appetite. Over the moons he had become sensitive to her moods and ways, and knew his wife had something to say to him. Sure enough, when he was half finished with his yams and fish, she cleared her throat.

  “You know that dream dancer,” she said. “The small one.”

  “Yes,” Frog said in cautious reply. “I know her.”

  “You know she can belong to no man.”

  “That is true.”

  “She is also ugly,” Glimmer offered. “Her tooth is broken in front.”

  “Compared with you,” said Frog, “all others are ugly.”

  Glimmer made little effort to conceal her smile. “If she tried to sex you, I would stab her.”

  “Her womb is dry with fear,” he said. She bumped him with her hip, and seemed to relax. They finished their meal in companionable silence.

  As if sex had somehow ripened her, Glimmer’s hips and breasts were now a woman’s. But he wondered if she felt secure in his love. Did he not bring her meat? Jealousy was not a stupid thing. More than one man had abandoned his woman to seek another, leaving the jilted one with no hunter to fill her pot and share her straw. Still, most wives and husbands tolerated each other’s lovers unless they were indiscreet indeed.

  Perhaps Glimmer could sense emotions that he himself hid deep within. But Frog had never played sex with the nameless one and probably never would.

  Moons waxed and waned, as moons always did. Uncle Snake was beginning to show his rains. Hawk Shadow spent moons on Great Sky, and his wife, Flamingo, often ate with Frog and Glimmer during these times. She and Glimmer grew as close as sisters, and when Glimmer held Flamingo’s children, Frog often thought they seemed to be her own.

  Every time Hawk returned from the mountain, he moved more silently, saw more clearly, spoke more like one possessed of great vision. Frog was very proud of his brother at these times. Even Fire Ant hid what must have been great disappointment, and danced with Hawk as they did when they were children.

  Once upon a time, Fire Ant and Hawk Shadow had been as alike as turtle eggs. Now, Hawk Shadow was clearly superior with the bow, with the spear and in the footrace. Fire Ant was an excellent and experienced stalker, but whatever secrets the hunt chiefs taught Hawk were transforming him into a formidable hunter indeed. He demonstrated it with every tireless stride, every grip of his suddenly irresistible wrestling. In every way he had become something wonderful.

  Even though Fire Ant c
ould no longer run as swiftly as Hawk Shadow, the two were above the boma’s other young men in almost every way. Frog could only dream of such prowess. Uncle Snake no longer ran with the hunters, and when he wrestled, the young ones no longer tried their hardest to defeat him. Instead he spent more and more time passing on his knowledge of nets and spears to the younger ones. It was increasingly common to see him sitting with the elders, fixing and sharpening spears, telling and embellishing tales.

  Frog sometimes whittled with him. Snake would squeeze Frog’s shoulder affectionately and hand him a length of wood, and teach him tricks with a knife point that turned branches into walking sticks for the old ones and toys for the children.

  Snake could lose himself for whole quarters in such a fashion, speaking little or not at all, and that was a good and peaceful thing to Frog.

  Stepfather and stepson had been sitting that way since the sun was directly overhead, and now the shadows were long.

  “Another sun gone,” Snake said.

  “To be reborn tomorrow, if the dream dancers sing.”

  “They always sing. The sun is always reborn,” Snake said. “I wonder if they could sing for me.”

  “What do you mean?” Frog asked.

  “A cold wind whistles in my bones,” Snake said, watching the dying sun with sad eyes. “I remember my father when he first came to sit here. And then the last time he spoke to me.” Snake paused, setting the tip of a sharp rock against a soft chunk of wild fig, gouging out curls of wood in a sun pattern. “He said that his life seemed so long before he came to the old ones. And that after that, it seemed to pass in a heartbeat.” He blew at the wood curls, scattering them like lazy butterflies drifting in the wind. “I am not ready to be old,” Snake sighed. “But I suppose old age is ready for me.”

  The dead left side of his face was a web of white lines against brown skin. Sometimes it was difficult for Frog to read Snake’s mood unless he was close enough to smell him. Now, however, the right corner of his mouth curved up. “You’ve been a good son,” Snake said. “Scorpion is a good boy too. Once, he was cruel.” Frog started to protest, but Snake waved him off. “I saw it. I think that he blamed the world for his mother’s death, and saw no beauty in it.”

  “He doesn’t hurt things anymore,” Frog said.

  “No. And I think that is because you are his brother,” Snake said. “I thank you. And thank you for being my son.”

  Frog stared at his stepfather, waiting to see if Snake might say more. He did not, and Frog made peace with that, finding that what had already been shared and said more than filled his heart.

  The day came when Frog returned from the hunt to find Glimmer at the small fire pit before their hut pounding yams into an unusually fine mush.

  “Come, husband,” she said to him. “Sit with me.” And he did.

  He waited, thinking that perhaps there were things that she wished to say to him, but she continued mashing with her wooden pestle, humming a cooking song.

  Frog took pleasure in watching the smooth, regular strokes, the grace of her body, the beauty scars on her shoulders and back. He remembered tracing his fingertips over them when they loved, and hungered to do it again.

  “Life comes,” she said to him finally, not looking up.

  He sat up straighter. “What?”

  Smiling, she pressed his right hand against her warm, smooth, rounded belly. “Life comes,” she repeated. “Your seed has taken root.”

  So stunned was he that the sounds of the world seemed to fade away altogether. Glimmer bore his child?

  He was a father?

  Frog held her until they both dissolved with laughter, and he ran to tell his mother.

  He found Gazelle at Fire River with Snake, weaving reeds into a fishing basket. Gray streaked her hair now. Her skin was loose, the flesh at her throat wattled. But in Frog’s loving eyes her grace and beauty were undiminished. Frog watched Gazelle and Snake before they saw him, watched the way they joked and worked together. With the passage of years, it seemed that their circles had come closer together.

  Children, male and female, played together.

  The adult men and women lived in different worlds.

  And then, with age, they seemed to join again.

  Frog blinked hard and scratched his head. This was another of those moments when it seemed that the universe was surrendering a mystery to him. Then the mists, so recently and deliciously parted, closed again, and the insight vanished.

  He had intended to tell Gazelle and Uncle Snake of the baby. Instead, he took his pleasure in watching them. So peaceful and comfortable with each other. Was that what he had to look forward to with Glimmer? If so, then all the hardships of life, all the doubt and pain and loss, were worthwhile.

  They would raise their children. He would hunt, and she would cook, and they would grow old together, as had Snake and Gazelle.

  And that, in some strange way, told him that Great Mother and Father Mountain might be watching after all.

  In moons Glimmer’s belly swelled as if she had swallowed a melon seed. His brothers and uncle watched Frog with great amusement as he strutted about the boma. His root was strong! He would be a father!

  Hot Tree and the other village women gathered around the hut when birthing time came. As always, Thorn Summer ran errands, carrying herbs and water for the women, the Between still the only man who could enter a birthing hut without losing num. His belly protruded and sagged over his belt now, and great folds of flesh bunched at his neck and cheeks. Still, he loved bringing babies into the world as much as he ever had.

  Frog sat with the men outside the hut, puffing a pipe and rattling off an endless stream of jokes and stories, so that his mind would not dwell on the screams from within the hut.

  Why was it taking so long? And why did the howls sound so terrible? When had a birth ever taken so long? A full day passed, and the women came and went, shoulders sagged, feet dragging. They smiled at Frog, but he could smell their fear and concern.

  All night he crouched outside the hut, Fire Ant and Hawk at his side, fat worms of smoke rising between them as they spoke of anything and everything except the only thing that mattered.

  Near dawn his brothers finally tottered off to sleep, but Frog, energized by the moans from within the hut, sat and waited.

  Near noon of the second day, he heard a baby crying, and his heart leapt. Hot Tree crawled out of the hut on her hands and knees, levering herself up to her feet with great effort.

  “You have a son,” she said. Her eyes told him that his joy would be diluted with sorrow. “Go, and see your woman.”

  Frog crawled through the doorway of their home. The air within was thick with sweat and blood and other fluids. Gazelle and Hawk’s wife, Flamingo, knelt at Glimmer’s side, removing damp grasses from beneath her, replacing them with dry. Glimmer seemed shrunken, like an emptied water skin, but still seemed somehow to reflect more light than streamed through the slats in the ceiling.

  Nestled against her breast, silent and suckling now, was his son. Tiny, not much bigger than Frog’s two fists. Wrinkled and still moist, mostly bald with a few strands of black hair. Minuscule pursed lips locked on Glimmer’s breast, suckling in frustration. The baby began to cry again, and Flamingo gently took him away, and put him to her own full breast.

  “I will take him out,” Flamingo said.

  “Let me hold him,” Frog said. “For just a few breaths.”

  His son seemed to weigh nothing at all, more spirit than flesh. Is this how life begins? Frog thought, dizzied. All his life he had seen babies, but still it seemed that he had never known one before. His life. His flesh. The future of his seed. He trembled as his lips touched the boy’s forehead.

  Frog traced his fingers over the tiny chest, the rounded tummy, noting the knotted umbilical still projecting a thumb’s thickness from the infant’s belly. It would fall away in time, but now it seemed that his son was a precious piece of fruit, plucked from some divine tree.<
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  “Frog. Frog. Hurt. So weak,” Glimmer said, crying and tossing.

  He handed his son gingerly to Flamingo and turned back to his wife. Hot Tree was wiping her forehead with a bundle of moss, whispering healing songs in her ear as she did.

  “Save your strength,” he said, and touched his lips to her forehead. “You must heal.”

  Throughout the day Hot Tree offered what medicines she could, but she was unable to reverse the draining of Glimmer’s strength. The boma mother shook her head, eyes worried above her wrinkled cheeks. “My herbs and dances are not enough,” she confessed. “We must ask my sister for help.”

  “Can you hold on?” Frog asked his woman. “In another moon, our son will have a name. If you can live that long, you might live for many rains. You might live longer than me.”

  She smiled, laughed shallowly, but the effort strained her. “I hurt….” Her eyes rolled up, exposing the whites.

  “You gave me a strong son,” he said, struggling to keep light and hope in his voice. “How can such a woman be weak?”

  “Frog,” Glimmer whispered, “love our child.”

  “Always.”

  She clutched at his hand. “You are a good man. I do not see what you see, or hear what you hear.” Despite her pain and weakness, she managed to laugh. “My husband talks to the clouds!”

  “They do not answer,” he said, trying to keep his words light, but choking on them. “You are a good wife.” Was there nothing more, nothing better he could think to say? His mind, once his pride, failed him utterly.

  Glimmer seemed to be mustering her strength for an answer, but then sank down into unconsciousness.

  Flamingo had had her third child only two moons earlier, and her milk was strong. Her child and Glimmer’s nursed side by side as if they had shared space in the same womb.

  With that stress relieved, Frog could concentrate on nursing his wife.

  Twice more during the next night, Glimmer awakened and spoke. For a moment she saw him, looked through him, almost as if the last moments of her life were destined to be the most lucid.