by Ted Dekker
But it was that very rudimentary, naked magnificence that struck terror into my heart. Where I had found a semblance of belonging in the Impirum village, I now felt fully alien. This sweating sea of humanity would take one look at me and call me out as an imposter.
I immediately saw the marked difference in ceremonial dress that divided the Impirum from the Warik. Both adorned their bodies with armbands and shells, preferring mother-of-pearl above all others. Both used carefully applied pigments to mark their faces and bodies with intricate designs, some terrifying, some delightful. Both wore headdresses and piercings through septa and ears.
But many of the Warik also wore human bones and favored headdresses formed from the carcasses of large black fruit bats or foxes. Skulls hung from the backs of many, and even more wore the lower jaw of a human as a necklace. These skulls came from their enemies, I guessed, not from deceased relatives.
Beside me Lela had already begun to move with the music, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were locked on the large tree, where several small groups of lords had gathered beneath its branches. Tengan, the muhan warrior she hoped would choose her, was there. As were Butos and Wilam.
And Kirutu. All three in ornate splendor. A young woman sat on the ground next to Kirutu. His new wife.
A caller’s voice rang out: “We are the people of the Tulim, and these are our muhan.”
Although I could understand some of his words, Lela repeated them for my benefit as five thousand voices thundered approval in tandem with pounding heels. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The ground shook under my feet.
“We are the people of the Tulim and the evil spirits flee at the sight of our shields.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The guttural sound of their resounding mantra filled the valley and sent a chill through my bones. I felt terrified and awed at once.
“We are the people of the Tulim and the whole world fears our name.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“Now our muhan Kirutu will receive his bride and his seed will bring new life.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Another cry went up, this one from an elderly man who ran toward us, then doubled back, shaking his long bow at the sky. “Our muhan is Wilam and he will bring great power through his many wives.”
Eyes turned toward Melino. Her arrival had been noted.
The response rumbled. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The man ran again. “Our father is Isaka and the sky bows to his name.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Of all the muhan, only Isaka was absent. I was told that he was still alive, but asleep. I wondered if he was in a coma.
“Our muhan is Butos and he will send the spirits to the sea,” the runner cried.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“Our muhan is Kirutu and he will gather the wam like insects and cook them in his fire.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
They were singing of their muhan, but all eyes seemed to have turned in our direction, and it occurred to me that they were now looking at me, not Melino.
“It is now in your hands,” Melino whispered. She stepped away from me and walked toward her husband, who stood under the tree with his back to us.
The first caller’s voice rang out for all to hear once again. “Now we will show our bodies to the spirits of the sky and show that with our muhan we have no fear.”
This time the throng edged forward, stamping the ground with their feet as they chanted agreement. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Melino’s entourage moved closer, taking me with them. Like a noose, the gathering closed around us. I kept my eyes on Wilam’s powerful back, refusing to return the stares of so many who had singled me out.
I was far too terrified to glance in Kirutu’s direction.
Like a tidal wave, anxiety swamped me. I was stepping forward with the rest, moving ever closer to the ceremony under the tree, but I felt as if I were alone on a sea that would swallow me at any moment. I was numb. I did not belong.
The drumming and chanting intensified. Warriors encroached, bending forward as they pressed in, closer, closer. Their voices echoed through the valley: whoa, whoa, whoa. But I only heard one word: wam, wam, wam.
A new thought suddenly filled my mind. What if Wilam had already told Kirutu his intentions? What if any attempt on my part was already a moot point?
Melino had reached her husband and was speaking into his ear.
Still the warriors tightened their circle, and I with them. Still the drums pounded. Still the chants rumbled through the jungle. Sawim, the witch doctor from the Karun clan, stood to one side of Kirutu, watching me with flat eyes.
We were only twenty paces from the ceremony when I dared a glance in Kirutu’s direction. Panic began to blind me. His unwavering eyes stared, void of expression. But in them I imagined hatred and rage. His tall, muscled form glistened with oil and sweat, and with each breath his body swelled like a knot of angry black vipers. A long, stained cassowary beak hung from his neck, splitting his chest down the breastbone.
I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. Here was the man who would rape me and then drag me for crocodile bait. Only Wilam could save me.
The chanting suddenly stopped; the drums ceased. The throng stood still. All but me.
I was breathing hard, lost in fear, and I was sure that every eye was fixed on me, the lowly white woman who had dared approach their powerful muhan as if she herself were Tulim. Or was I only imagining such direct attention?
I glanced around frantically and saw their eyes watching me in silence. But there was Melino with her gentle eyes. And Wilam, staring with some curiosity.
In that moment of raw dread, a simple thought dropped into my head, like a gift from heaven.
Sing.
That mad dream that had first prompted me to leave Atlanta skipped through my mind for the first time in weeks. The form in that dream had sung. I had long dismissed any real connection between the dream and my new reality. In fact, I had never again had the dream. But now I remembered the pure, clear note sung in that distant dream as I had first heard it, not as the mocking howl it had become in my more recent memory.
I could sing. It was central to Tulim culture. How often had I delighted the children with my soft song? And I knew no other way to present myself.
So I began to sing.
At first my voice sounded like a pitiful cry from a strangled bird. No song in particular, only a tune, and no tune that I knew.
If any of those near had not been staring, they were now. My voice strengthened and my tone became a little clearer.
My eyes shifted to Wilam and with one look at his soft eyes my tune found melody, and my melody lyrics. A familiar song that I had sung to an audience before warbled from my throat, then found its wings and rose, sweet and high, like a lark sent to the heavens.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
The stage was now mine and mine alone. It was as if my entire life had somehow pointed to this moment. I forced my legs forward and stepped out from the circle of teeming Tulim.
“That saved a wretch like me…”
My feet carried me into the clearing. It was an intimate call to Wilam, for in that moment I was indeed the wretch, begging for his grace. He couldn’t know the meaning of the words, but neither could he mistake the desperate longing for mercy in my eyes.
“I once was lost but now am found/Was blind but now I see.”
And with those words I let myself believe that I indeed could see.
I could see the beauty of the children laughing with me at the pool; I could see Lela begging me to make this babies; I could see Melino telling me how lovely I looked; I could see Wilam watching me with fascination.
I stepped forward, carried by the music, light like a feather as I slowly approached Wilam.
Surely he’d never heard such a tune. It was in no way superior to their own f
orm of song, but music is its own magical language. For the first time he was really hearing me. They were all hearing me.
My song soared through the air, heard by the farthest warriors, the wives, the children on the hills, all who had come to celebrate this wedding. It was my gift to the Tulim, but even more my promise to Wilam.
See me, hear me, and know that I will intoxicate you with far more than a mere song.
Still I sang, with even more clarity, in perfect pitch, embellishing the melody with gentle runs of my own, running through another verse of that glorious song.
When I was only a few steps from Wilam I glanced at Melino and I smiled with her. My voice carried into the Tulim jungle and beyond, for all the world to hear.
“When we’ve been there ten thousand years…”
I turned slowly and swept my arms, enraptured by a power I had not felt for many years. I was no longer merely wam, but an angel that must be heard to be believed. They were in awe of me. The bond of music had made us one.
My gaze settled on Wilam as I came to the end of the song, and when the last note was gone from my lips and quiet settled around me, I stood still, breathing hard, intently watching his steady eyes.
The whole celebration had been robbed of its breath.
I don’t know what consequence I might have faced if my bid for Wilam’s heart had ended there. But then from the stillness came a small, crystalline voice that pierced my heart. Several short notes, as high and as pure as a sparrow’s call.
I turned to see Yellina standing on the edge of the crowd, crooning at the sky, mimicking my own tune.
“Da, da, dada, daaahhh…”
The blue butterflies on her cheeks bunched as she stepped out toward me, grinning.
My dear, precious Yellina! I rushed up to the little girl, laughing, and I swept her from her feet. Together we spun around singing the tune, like a ballerina and her little apprentice, enchanted by our song.
“Da, da, dada, daaahhh…”
I twirled with her in my arms and the sound of her giggling bubbled over the Tulim like a rippling brook.
Not to be outdone, three, then four other Impirum children ran out and began to hop around, trying their best to join with a chant of their own.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.”
Sounds of delight and laughter spread through the gathering. Nothing was so treasured among the Tulim as children, and the children were commanding their hearts.
I set Yellina down, took her tiny hand, and danced around with her, first one way and then the other. I lost myself in her beaming face and for a few moments I forgot I was only a wam trying to be Tulim. This tiny girl was all that mattered to me. If there were angels, she was surely one, sent by God years before my arrival to give me comfort when I arrived.
The crier who had led the people only minutes earlier began to run before the warriors, issuing a new exuberant chant.
“We are the Tulim and these are our children!”
The air filled with a thousand voices in one accord. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“We are the Tulim and our children love us because we are great!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The children danced with me, their pied piper, as the crier immortalized us with his verse.
“We are the Tulim children and we love those who love us.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“We are the Tulim and we love the ones who love our children.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Because the crier rattled his words so quickly I hardly knew what this poet was announcing until Lela told me later, but I was aware of the electric charge that elevated us all to the heavens in that moment.
“We are the Tulim and the spirits have sent us a woman who loves our children,” the caller cried.
The reply came, but with far fewer voices.
I knew immediately that something had shattered their enchantment. I glanced at Kirutu and saw that he stood with one hand raised.
As if overcome by a passing thunderstorm, the dancing ceased and the voices stilled.
Yellina giggled and hugged my legs, oblivious to the sudden change. One of the mothers called out and motioned her back. The children ran back to the circle, leaving me alone with the muhan once again.
Kirutu pointed at the crier. “You have said too much!” His voice echoed through the crowd. “This is no woman, but a wam who has come to steal our children.”
I turned to Wilam and saw that he was still fixated on me. I silently pleaded my case to him, willing that he save me from the monster by his side.
The crier lowered himself to one knee. “I spoke not of this wam, but of another woman,” he said.
“No.” Wilam lifted his hand, eyes still on me. He stepped out and scanned the massive ring of Tulim watching with fascination. “No, Unnanip did not sing of another woman but of this white woman among us. And yet only I can speak of the truth about this woman because she is under my care.”
The three gathered tribes—Warik, Impirum, and Karun—stood with brittle poise, aware of brewing conflict. Sawim, the shaman, drilled me with a terrible stare that brought a shiver to my arms. My eyes darted back to Wilam.
“Today we celebrate Kirutu’s wedding, and what better way than to bring him gifts?”
No response.
“Melino, my young wife who is wise beyond her years and as clever as a serpent, brought this woman as a gift for Kirutu. If she were only a wam to be traded like salt, I would never have allowed it. Kirutu is far too noble and respected to be given a mere wam at such an auspicious occasion.”
Agreement peppered the gathering. “Aboo aret. Aboo aret.” Very true.
I couldn’t tell if Wilam was destroying me or defending me, but he was clearly a consummate politician.
He lifted his finger and studied the Tulim. “But today I have seen as a child sees. I have heard the voice of our ancestors telling us to love our children. I have seen the smile of the littlest one and I see that my wife Melino was right. This white woman is indeed worthy to be in Kirutu’s presence.”
Wilam glanced at me, then faced Kirutu, who appeared unaffected by the words. If Wilam was truly offering him a gift, he obviously didn’t trust that gift.
Wilam nodded at his brother. “Accept this gift of song and dance from me, your brother by blood.” He indicated me with his hand. “As she has drawn the love of many children, may your new wife draw your love and bear you many children.”
Kirutu glared at him. “I will accept your gift and take this woman.”
“No, Kirutu. The white woman is mine. But her song and her dance are from the spirits, a great gift for this great day.”
For a moment Kirutu did not react. But as understanding of Wilam’s calculated defiance settled into his mind, his eyes darkened. Such bitterness I had never witnessed on a man’s face.
He ripped the beak from the twine around his neck and threw it to the ground. The jungle went still.
“You defile me and all that is sacred,” he snarled.
He jerked his head to his right and stared at the shaman, Sawim.
“Speak what is true for all to hear.”
Sawim’s eyes were still on me, unwavering. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
“The blood of the Tulim will be on Wilam’s hands,” he said in a low, rasping voice.
With that single announcement my fate was sealed, but so was Wilam’s. He’d staked his claim. To yield now, even at Sawim’s declaration, would leave him with a terrible deficit in the people’s eyes. What kind of leader made a claim only to retreat when that claim was threatened?
Certainly not a leader worthy of ruling the Tulim valley.
I saw all of this written on their faces as Kirutu and Wilam faced off, two brothers vying for power.
“Wilam.”
It was Melino. She was staring up the slope to my left, north.
“Wilam!”
There on the hill stood the
same man who’d once come to my aid. He was too far away to recognize by face, but his casual stance, leaning on that spear, and his furs could not be mistaken. The Nameless One.
Wilam saw him. So did Kirutu. As did all gathered, following Melino’s stare.
But this time they did not flee. Kirutu stilled them, hand raised. His order rumbled over the crowd. “Stay.”
They stayed. Motionless.
As if satisfied that he’d done what he’d come to do, the Nameless One slowly turned and walked out of view, spear in hand.
Wilam and Melino exchanged a furtive look.
Kirutu turned to his brother. “So be it,” he said.
Wilam nodded at his guard. “Bring her.”
And then he loped from the clearing, up the path that led to the Impirum village.
As one, his people fell in behind him.
I was going home.
My new home.
Chapter Fifteen
A FULL DAY passed before I stood before Wilam again. I was sequestered in the upper courts, in a clean but sparsely appointed hut, guarded at all times. A servant brought me food and water, but no one else came and the servant refused to speak to me.
I understood this much: I was the cause of a great rupture in the Tulim valley. A part of me regretted having made such a bold play for my life. How many lives would be lost on my account?
But the better part of me was grateful to be alive.
On the evening of the next day, I was summoned and taken by a warrior to the Muhanim, that great meeting place reserved for the lords in the upper court.
Melino cut us off as we approached the towering entrance. She took my hand and dismissed the warrior. The man scowled but held his place along the path. The tension between them was unmistakable. I might have been saved from Kirutu, but my actions had earned me new enemies among the Impirum.
“Remember only one thing,” Melino whispered as we stepped up to the entrance. “If you do not conceive soon, all will be lost. Think of nothing else. Only a child can save you now.”
Then she led me into the Muhanim.
Wilam sat by the fire, etching markings into the shaft of a spear. Four other muhan warriors watched me from across the room. Not a soul spoke.
