by Ted Dekker
“Tell me you will not resist me,” I whispered, leaning closer. “I will not peck your eyes out like a cassowary. I will make you the father of a son.”
He did not respond.
“Tell me that I may do whatever I wish.”
“You must.”
In that moment I, the white woman scorned by my captors and rejected for two shells, became the most powerful woman in the valley, for I had Wilam, son of Isaka, envy of every man and woman in the Tulim valley, under my command.
And with that power I would serve Wilam in a way he had not dreamed possible.
I placed my hand over his heart.
Under my palm his chest rose and fell as his breathing thickened. His reaction to my touch made me dizzy with desire. The hut was hotter than it had been only moments earlier, and my skin prickled with anticipation.
Leaning into him, I brought my finger to his mouth and traced his lips.
“Where I come from we use our mouth to speak more than simple words,” I whispered.
“Show me,” he breathed.
The Tulim did not kiss. It simply wasn’t a part of their tradition. But we were both beyond tradition. All that mattered now was the fulfillment of need and duty.
I slowly lifted my lips to his, and I kissed him. Gently at first, allowing him time to find pleasure in the new sensation. Then I dipped my tongue into his mouth and I felt him shudder.
The sounds of the night faded and time stood still for us. I had intended to gratify Wilam, but I had not anticipated how deeply I would drink from that same pool. For long minutes we kissed, with increasing passion.
With a sudden groan deep within his throat, Wilam seized my waist and lifted me as if I were a doll in hands of iron. Until that moment deep in the jungle, I had never wanted to be loved so badly as I wanted to be loved by Wilam.
Perhaps because I had been a slave and was now the master, if only in that hut.
Perhaps because he had saved me from certain death.
Perhaps because I wanted to feel fully alive again after living on the ragged edge of death for so long.
Or perhaps because I wanted to create new life.
Chapter Sixteen
THE DAYS that followed were a dizzying whirlwind. Yes, my purpose was to bear a child, but I had sparked more than the desire for a son in Wilam’s heart—of that I was quite sure.
When a woman is the subject of such utter preoccupation to a man as I was, she cannot help but feel like a queen. I was caught up in the joy of Melino and the other muhan, who now treated me with new respect.
I was tempted to believe that Wilam was falling in love with me. Perhaps even I with him. Everywhere I went, the people knew. I was Wilam’s second wife. Lela was ecstatic and wrestled far too many details from me.
But I was duly aware that I was that queen only because I bore the promise of a child. My power grew in my belly, not in my heart. I kept telling myself that this didn’t matter, I should only be grateful. But the thought nagged at me when I allowed it.
I was loved for what I could offer, not for who I was.
And who was I? I didn’t rightly know anymore.
Melino became my confidante. That first night I was certain that I would quickly become the object of her jealousy. How could she see Wilam’s face and not wonder if she could bring such a smile from him? But the very next day she called for me and put my fears to rest.
“What else do you know about pleasing a man?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” I asked, blushing. “No more than you.”
She pulled me up the path and spoke in a hushed voice. “I have never touched Wilam’s mouth with mine! This isn’t our way and yet he will not stop talking of it.”
“He told you that?”
She looked at me, confused. “You did not do this?”
“No…I mean yes, I did.” That Wilam would be so candid with her took me off guard. I still didn’t understand the Tulim’s transparency. Of course Melino was Wilam’s wife and privy to every aspect of his life, to the finest detail.
“You must show me this so that I can try.”
I learned later that her attempt was a great success, and that made me laugh.
Melino and I talked regularly after that, not once exchanging an awkward moment regarding our shared love for Wilam. She had welcomed me into their marriage as was customary, and she suffered no lessening of attention from him.
She was the first among the Tulim with whom I shared my own rudimentary spiritual beliefs, perhaps because for the first time I began to feel as though perhaps God had not forgotten me. The details of all the stories I’d learned growing up seemed disconnected from this jungle, so I spoke only of a Creator of love who had sent his own warrior of sorts, his son, to rescue the world from hatred and jealousy and strife of all kinds.
I realized as I told it that this story was similar to the prophesy Melino hoped might be fulfilled through my child. She found all of it curious and quite delightful.
My faith felt distant to me. It was still there but submerged by my harrowing experience.
A week passed and I knew that one question occupied their minds more than any other. Would I bleed? Melino asked me every day, reminding me of my true purpose. But no, I had not bled. It wasn’t that time yet.
Ten days passed and still I had not bled.
Eleven. Then twelve. Then fourteen.
I would never have imagined in my wildest dreams that my bleeding would be the fixation of so many people. They knew, all of them. The wind itself was whispering—Yuli has not bled.
My period, in fact, became a large part of my identity. My brain and my heart seemed to be present only in supporting roles. With each passing day I seemed to be treated with more respect, as though I’d become more valuable.
This fixation with my bleeding began to bother me, and I finally made that frustration known to Melino by snapping at her. She merely looked at me with a stern face and told me to quit being selfish. I had nothing more to say.
On the morning of the sixteenth day I awoke to nausea.
The word spread like wildfire. Yuli was with child. Wilam was going to have a son!
I was immediately elevated to a status not unlike that of a goddess among the Tulim. Where I had been met with knowing eyes and smiles over the past two weeks, I was now greeted with accolades of awe and tender touches.
I was a white girl from Atlanta living in a jungle that had nearly claimed my life, but for the next two days I felt as though God had indeed heard my cry and come to my rescue. Perhaps not in the way of my choosing, but he’d come after all.
The feast that Wilam threw to celebrate was a massive undertaking that saw the slaughtering of one hundred pigs. The scent of their hair burning over open fires filled the entire village and watered Impirum mouths with the promise of meat and yams and squash and steamed pandanus fruit.
Melino saw to my dressing and I walked among them like royalty, colored in red and blue pigments with a crown of towering bird of paradise feathers that might have fetched a month’s salary in the Western world. As dusk fell, nearly four thousand Impirum sat or squatted on the slopes, watching Wilam present me to Melino as the bearer of his child, whom he proudly announced would one day rule the Tulim.
As was their custom, he milked the red, soupy paste from the pandanus fruit onto my belly, then fed it to Melino. The congregation’s thundering cry scattered a thousand birds from the canopy above. By consuming this symbol of blood, Melino became as much the mother of my child as I was.
The tribe ran back and forth, dancing and singing, and I with them, until I could hardly stand.
Wilam led me away from the celebration late, followed by Melino and two of his ranking warriors. Much ado was made of how great the feast had been, but as we approached the Muhanim the air became quiet.
When we stepped into the hut, the elders were seated along the walls, watching us with somber eyes. I knew immediately that something was wrong.
&n
bsp; Wilam guided me around the smoldering fire. “Get her a soft mat,” he ordered one of his warriors. “Get her some water and some meat. Hurry.” He looked at me. “You are hungry?”
“I just ate. What’s happening?”
His hand touched my belly. “The child is good?”
I was growing accustomed to their hovering and Wilam’s unyielding concern for my well-being. “All is well,” I said.
“You shouldn’t have danced so much.”
“Then you should have thrown a smaller feast.”
“You must not sit too quickly or run too much.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve been with child less than a month.”
“And I will see to it that you’re with child another eight months. Now sit.”
Melino had seated herself with her legs folded to one side. “Sit beside me, Yuli. Don’t pay Wilam any mind, he’s only a man who knows nothing about being a woman. He thinks you’re made of flowers and will blow apart in the wind.”
Normally this would have earned her a chuckle from the warriors and a scoff from Wilam, but tonight there was no mirth in the Muhanim.
I settled to my seat.
Wilam paced on the bark floor like a caged lion. This was not his typical calm behavior. “Because now you must know that everything has changed.”
“Not so changed that I don’t know what to do with my own body,” I said.
His eyes darted to Melino, and by the concern etched on his face, I knew that something was indeed wrong.
She nodded once. “Listen to him, Yuli.”
“What is it?”
Wilam faced me. “The Warik are wearing the black grease.”
I glanced at the elders and saw the glint of fear in their eyes.
“What is the black grease?”
“We must not speak of this,” one of the elders said.
Melino flashed a harsh glare at the men.
“She bears Wilam’s child! She has the right to know.”
Wilam crossed to the platform and sat, facing me with steady eyes. For a while he said nothing, but that silence worked fingers of terrible fear into my mind.
“The Warik know you carry my child. It was my hope that they would see my wisdom and strength and harden their hearts against Kirutu. This is the way of the Tulim, to offer greatest respect to those who bring life. They saw your beauty when you sang and danced with the children.” He stopped.
“What is the black grease?” I asked again.
“But Kirutu and the witch of the Karun tribe have turned them with the black grease. It is made from the fat of a crocodile mixed with Sawim’s blood. With this ceremony they call on the power of the evil spirits.”
The fear in that room was palpable. I could hear the fire crackling and the night creatures crying in the jungle, and my ears heard the sounds of hell.
“But spirits are only spirits,” I said, trying to believe my own words. “They can’t overpower the mighty Impirum.”
His eyes shifted to Leweeg, the elder who had spoken. He was the closest the Impirum had to a shaman. Among the three clans—the Warik, the Impirum, and the Karun—a true shaman could come from and live among the Karun only, but each tribe had spiritual elders.
“She is incapable of understanding,” the old man said. “She is a woman and she is wam.”
“She is my wife!” Wilam snapped.
They exchanged a long look and the elder finally dipped his head.
“Forgive me.”
I had been told that, compared to most tribes in the region, the Tulim regarded women with respect. But some biases are not easily washed from the hearts of men.
It was the least of my concerns at the moment.
“Sawim has declared our union and our child invalid,” Wilam said.
“And you will tolerate this?” I demanded.
His eyes flashed with hatred. “I will see a thousand Warik die before I see any harm come to my son. The rule of the Tulim must not leave the Impirum clan.”
With those words reality once again settled around me like a thick fog. My value to them was still a matter of political power. We had celebrated as if heaven itself had fallen to earth, but the celebration hadn’t been for me. It had been for my unborn child.
Even more, it had been for Wilam.
For his river of his life that would extend his power for yet another generation. I was but a vessel.
I felt Melino’s hand settle on my thigh. Tears welled in my eyes.
“You have nothing to fear, Yuli,” Melino said. “Wilam will raise a thousand warriors to protect you. Our child will be born.”
“It has been a hundred years since any have taken up the black grease,” the elder said softly. “There will be war.”
“Then let there be war,” Wilam spat.
He turned to me, face stern.
“You will sleep in the spousal hut alone. You may never come or go without my men. There is nothing to fear. My men will protect you. We have heard that Kirutu is only making noise. This will take time and we will be ready.”
His words should have been comforting.
Instead I felt utterly alone.
“Take her to the hut,” he said. “Bring me my warriors.” And then to me, meaning well, I know: “You will be safe.”
Wilam was wrong. I wasn’t safe.
Chapter Seventeen
AFTER BEING delivered to my hut alone it took me two hours to drift into a fitful sleep. When I asked Melino to stay with me, she informed me that she could stay only until I slept and would then be otherwise occupied. It was crucial that I sleep. Nothing must disturb me.
The night was quiet and the three warriors stationed outside my hut spoke only occasionally in soft tones.
I don’t know how the dark ones slipped through the perimeter guard Wilam had stationed around the village.
I don’t know why the three warriors at my door didn’t put up a fight or call out a warning.
I know only that I was in deep sleep when a crushing blow struck my head. I remember thinking that the roof had collapsed before darkness swallowed me completely.
But the moment I awoke I knew that a falling roof was not my problem. My being wam, on the other hand, was.
I was bound hand and foot, hanging from a pole. A bag was over my throbbing head and a gag cut deeply into my mouth. I had been in that position before, swinging a foot off the ground between two Warik warriors who rushed me through the jungle.
I struggled and cried into my gag, thinking we might still be close enough to the Impirum village to be heard, but my resistance only earned me a hard blow to my head and a harsh grunt of rebuke.
“Koneh.” Shut up.
A hundred thoughts badgered my mind—nightmares of the worst kind. Surely Kirutu would not allow me to live.
If only it had been so simple.
Only one thought gave me a moment’s hope as I hung from that pole and silently cried into my bag: I was alive. I should have died with Stephen in the sea, but I was alive. I should have been executed the day after entering the valley, but I was alive. I should have been given to Kirutu at his wedding and paid him back with my life, but I was alive.
If Kirutu had wanted me dead now, he could have instructed his warriors to kill me in my hut.
But then even that hope was quickly dashed, because being alive in Kirutu’s hut would be only a different kind of death. Whatever his plans for me might be, they could not be favorable.
The vines they’d used to bind my hands and feet to the pole dug into my skin with each bounce as they ran. If we had gone on much longer, my arms might have come out of their sockets, but we were much closer to the Warik village than I had assumed. Indeed, I briefly wondered if we hadn’t gone south after all, but to the house of an embittered Impirum villager.
No more than twenty minutes after I’d awakened to find myself bound, my carriers hauled me into a hut, dumped me on the bark floor, and left me prone with a crackling fire near my feet.
My every thought cried out to God. And for Wilam to come before Kirutu could begin whatever harm he intended.
And yet I knew even as I lay bound and gagged, like one of the pigs my prince had slaughtered to honor the life in my womb, that Wilam could not save me from Kirutu. The man was too shrewd and too angry to allow his enemy another victory. He’d been scorned and mocked, and his revenge would be carefully orchestrated to end his shame once and for all.
If Wilam had failed to keep me safe in his own fortress, he could do nothing here, even if he knew I was missing.
The only thing I could do was play Kirutu’s game with the thinnest hope that I, not Wilam, could foil him long enough to give my prince the time he needed to find me and save our child.
“I have heard it said that the children of some wam have blue eyes because they are evil spirits.” The man spoke in a low tone, only feet from where I lay, and a chill washed down my spine. I could not mistake Kirutu’s voice.
“But when I see your child, I do not see an evil spirit,” he said. “I see only a child who does not know where it belongs.”
The Tulim often spoke of unborn children as if they were already walking about the village, and they used metaphors regarding the ways of the spirit world. But his meaning hardly mattered; I was still consumed with the sound of Kirutu’s haunting voice.
“But if I am wrong and the child is evil, then the mother must also be a demon. Only this would explain how you have escaped my grasp and bewitched the Impirum.”
You must be calm, Julian. For the sake of your child, you must still your mind and think very carefully.
A hand snatched the bag from my head. I blinked and saw that I was inside the same hut I’d visited during my first night among the Tulim, presumably one belonging to Kirutu, perhaps one on the outskirts of the village reserved for liaisons or for hunting.
Kirutu stepped into firelight, unadorned except for a rattan waistband and a necklace of cowrie shells bearing a single boar’s tusk. The scar on his side stood out angrily on his shiny skin covered in black grease—crocodile fat and Sawim’s blood mixed with whatever other ingredients turned it black. He watched me with dark eyes set deeply into his hardened face.
