by Hugh Cook
Namaji, however, did not mind. Namaji thought Togura was wonderful. Namaji longed for him. Namaji worshipped him. Togura, having outgrown his brief-lived horror of human flesh – he had by now convinced himself that the birth he had seen was a tragic medical freak, and that most babies probably exited to the outside world by way of a woman's naval – was once more being tormented by his unappeased lusts. Given half a chance, he would appease them with Namaji.
That spring, a stranger arrived, bearing a green bough, which was perhaps a sign of peace, for he was admitted, even though he was not of the village. He smelt differently. His hair was elaborately styled, tied into ornate knots in the front, plaited into three pigtails behind, in start contrast to the men of the village, many of whom, thanks to Togura Poulaan's latest contribution to the world of fashion, were wearing their hair shaven close to the skull in front, and wild and woolly behind. The lobes of the stranger's ears were tattooed with blue, black and red, which, for reasons unknown to Togura, made many of the women giggle.
After a day of public palaver, in which the stranger made several speeches which were very well received, the men of the village feted the stranger in the meeting hall. Togura was there, sitting on a three-legged stool just behind the headman, playing his triple-harp.
It was a wild night. The men got drunk on fermented mare's milk heavily laced with a juice extracted from a special kind of toadstool. This potentially lethal brew was forbidden to women, and to untouchables like Togura, so he could only watch, stone cold sober, while the men got legless to the tune of his music.
At the height of the festivities, when most of the men were flat on their backs, the visiting stranger suddenly drew a knife and advanced on the headman. Togura at first thought it was a joke. Then a warrior, staggering on uncertain legs, tried to intercept the stranger, and was stabbed with three swift, professional blows. Nobody else was fit to stand.
As the women screamed, Togura picked up his three-legged stool and hurled it at the stranger. It clipped him on the head. Momentarily stunned, he wavered. Togura closed with him. And down they went, fighting for control of the knife. The women started to shout, stamp and applaud.
"Don't just stand there!" yelled Togura. "Hit him!"
But nobody understood his Galish.
The stranger was a strong, tough, wiry warrior, experienced in battle. But he had drunk a little of the night's brew, so as to appear sociable. Togura had drunk nothing. He, too, was tough, strong and wiry, capable of spending entire days lugging around heavy pots of water, milking mares or making felt. He found a stranglehold, and made good use of it.
Togura, with the stranger dead, stood up.
The stranger started to stir – he was not dead at all. Togura tried to finish him off, but the women restrained him. Since the would-be assassin was not dead, they would have the pleasure of skinning him alive.
The next day, terrible things happened to the captive. In public. He clung stubbornly to life; he was not a pretty sight by the time he died. Togura watched it all, without emotion. He had seen worse. The body lay in state while everyone filed past to give the corpse a good hearty kick, which helped tenderise the meat; Togura gave it the hardest kick of all. The corpse was then demolished; some small boys began a tug of war with the intestines, while the women sizzled chunks of flesh on a barbecue.
"Togura!" said the headman, when the first steaks were cooked.
At first, Togura did not realise he was being addressed, for the headman's hare lip made the name slurred and distorted. Every time Togura heard the headman speak, he was reminded of Slerma, who also used to have a strange, slurred voice; he still had occasional nightmares about her.
"Togura!" said the headman, again.
This time, Togura realised who was being spoken to. He got such a shock that he almost jumped out of his skin. He advanced, with some hesitation. The headman embraced him, then presented him with a prime piece of rump steak. He was flattered. He ate heartily. Excellent! But this was not the end of his reward, for, after several long speeches, all the unmarried women of the village formed a line. The headman thumped Togura on the chest, then indicated the women.
Slowly, he began to understand.
A miraculous future revealed itself.
By triumphing over the assassin, he had saved the headman's life; he had proved himself as a man and as a warrior. He was going to be allowed to marry into the tribe. He would have weapons and a horse. Riding off to battle with the other men, he would prove himself as a great war leader. In time, he would become chief, an honoured patriarch revered at home, and feared abroad for his cunning, his sagacity, his reckless violence on the field of battle.
He looked the women over. He could see which ones fancied themselves – those who were tallest and widest. Well, bugger that for a joke! There was no way he was going to get himself hitched to a woman he couldn't beat up if it came to the crunch. There was only one choice for him, and he kenw it. He picked Namaji.
Incredulous laughter greeted his choice. The headman laughed until tears of mirth came blubbering down his cheeks. Little boys rolled about on the ground, chortling, kicking their heels as if they were being strangled. Togura dearly wished to have a go at a few of them. Namaji, embarrassed beyond endurance, broke down and cried. Togura confronted her bravely.
Finally the headman recovered hyimself, and made a short speech which set the people stamping and cheering. Namaji managed a small smile, and Togura knew everything was going to be all right.
The marriage took place the next day. The ceremony started at dawn and ended at sunset. There was a lot of singing, dancing and eating; Togura, for once, took no part in the music-making. During the ceremony, a horse was tortured to death as part of the festivities. Togura couldn't help noticing that it was a rather old horse, which had been lame to start with. He felt slightly insulted by this, feeling that he deserved the best.
At sunset, all the men escorted Togura and Namaji to a hut which had been made ready for them. He found himself trembling as he closed the door on the outside world.
"Namaji."
"Togura."
They found each other in the darkness. Togura, his hands shaking, laid rough hands on Namaji. In his haste, he stripped her more swiftly than he should have; he heard a little rip as fabric gave. Urgently, he grappled with her, sliding a hand straight to her privacy, and finding -
Togura screamed.
"No no no no!" he shouted.
Outside the hut, there was a chorus of cruel, knowing laughter. The men were out there. They knew! And what they knew was that his "she" was a "he." Namaji touched Togura with small, gentle, seducing hands. He slapped them away. Namaji wept.
"Togura," said Namaji, pleading.
"No," said Togura. "It's no good. I don't want a make-belief woman. I want the real thing."
He desperately wanted, needed, lusted for the real thing, so he could rut it under, taking what other men wanted, thus proving his strength, sagacity, wisdom, superiority and manhood. His ego lusted for status as much as his body lusted for the flesh.
He opened the door to the night, finding the men without. Gleefully, they bundled him back inside. He slammed the door on them, and swore.
"Togura?" said Namaji, tremulously.
"No!" roared Togura. "No! Forget it!"
He threw himself down in a corner and lay there, sulking. When Namaji lay down beside him, he did not have the heart to push her away. Nevertheless, he lay there stiffly, rejecting her with silence. She touched him again.
"Namaji," said Togura, removing her hand. "It wouldn't work."
"Togura?" she said hopefully, not understanding his Galish.
"No," he said. And then, using the local word: "Kal."
Understanding, she began to cry again. And Togura felt ashamed with himself, and sorry for her, and, at the same time, disgusted by her, and hated himself for being so narrow and cruel as to be disgusted, and felt bitter, angry and outraged at being forced into a position
where he had – he felt this strongly – just had to be narrow and cruel to be true to himself. And -
But there is no need to elaborate. Suffice to say that he felt very mixed up, his emotions flickering like a chameleon trapped in a kaleidoscope, making his mind an agony of confusion.
He should be loyal to Namaji. But she had tricked him, so he shouldn't be. But maybe she thought he knew all along. And, after all, a warm body was a warm body. But nobody else in the village wanted this body! But he had known that all along. But he had not know why. But -
"Sod it sod it sod it," said Togura, biting his arm viciously, trying to relieve his agony by hurting himself.
And he started to weep.
Outside the hut, the men started to sing a loud, vigorous song which was probably obscene; maybe they had made it up especially to mock him. He wished he could kill them all. Kill them and castrate them. Rape their women one by one and burn their village down to nothing.
Why were people so vicious?
Why was life so cruel?
"Why was I ever born?" said Togura.
Whatever the reason for his birth, he was sure he was not fulfilling it by lying in a mud hut weeping for the amusement of a bunch of jabbering savages. As his sorrow began to ease, it was replaced by a fierce, furious determination.
"Live free or die," said Togura.
And he started making a hole in the roof.
Chapter 31
When Togura finally punched through to the starlight, he heard men outside, talking in low voices, their conversation punctuated occasionally by laughter. Supposing that they would eventually get bored and go away, he waited. Namaji, exhausted by emotional trauma, fell asleep, snoring loudly. Waiting in the darkness, Togura did mental revision, working through all the ways he knew of killing people. He concluded, with regret, that his repertoire was rather limited.
He heard some men saying their goodbyes, and, after that, no voices, no laughter. He enlarged the hole, then hauled himself out onto the roof and dropped down into the darkness. He stood there, listening. He heard insects cricketing away, frogs croaking in the distance, a few muffled snores, and, far away, a horse neighing. It was a dark, cold night, lit by starlight; there was, as yet, no moon. He could have wished for some wind; the night was very still.
Togura began to slip between the hulking shadows of the mud huts, moving lightfoot-brightfoot through the night. Without warning, a cock crowed close at hand and close at ear:
"Co co rico! Co co rico!"
The noise was as loud as a slap on the ear. Togura started, as if someone had sheathed a blade in his heart. The cock crowed again.
"Who will rid me of this turbulent rooster?" muttered Togura.
He should have known better than to speak. His voice was low, but it set a dog to barking. Other dogs roused to the challenge. As they barked, furiously, sleepers awakened. Mobbed by angry shouts, Togura sprinted for the village wall. He went over it, ran into the darkness and lay flat.
Togura knew there was no point in escaping without a horse, for the village men would quarter the country and ride him down by daylight. He had to have a mount. But there was no point in making immediately for the horse corral, because it was guarded; no doubt the guard would soon be reinforced. He lay quiet and still, a shadow lost in the shadows.
A furious search was soon going on. Togura heard sounds of fighting, then cries of pain from a man. He speculated that a sentry who should have been patrolling the wall had been caught sleeping. He heard a lot of noise from the horse corral. Men with burning brands searched the area near the corral; someone seemed to be searching in amongst the horses. Soon a number of mounted men were circling the village.
Togura, though he was shivering in the cold night air, did not move until all the fuss and excitement had died down a little. Then he crept back to the village wall and followed it round to the gates. Some men, dismounted, were standing there by their horses, arguing. A dog barked loudly as Togura approached; a man cursed it and kicked it to silence. Someone was urinating noisily in the darkness.
As humble as a cockroach, Togura went sneaking to the nearest horsy shadow. Closing with the animal, he ran his hands along its back, locating the saddle. He found the nearest stirrup and got his foot in it. He found the reins, took them in hand, then mounted.
"Wah-Warguild!" screamed Togura, kicking the horse.
His mount reared. A man grabbed Togura's leg. Togura kicked, and was free. Screaming, he urged the horse to a gallop. A warrior threw a spear, which missed. Still screaming, Togura galloped away into the night. His screams, as he had intended, scattered the other horses, giving him a decent head start.
Navigating by the stars, he headed north. Once he reached the hills, he would kill the horse then trek over the mountains back to Estar. With dismay, he realised that the moon was rising.
Sooner than he had thought, the village men managed to secure their horses and join the pursuit. He heard their shouts and hoofbeats behind him. The rising moon betrayed him to the night.
"Ride, beauty," urged Togura, slapping the horse.
He galloped the horse until it could gallop no more; fortunately, the riders behind him were having similar problems with their own mounts. The chase continued at a steady trot.
Suddenly, to his dismay, Togura realised that there were riders ahead of him. How had that happened?
He was still trying to work out what to do next when the riders up ahead dispersed. They disappeared into a little bit of hummocked land off to his left. He blinked, wondering if they were ghosts, or if he had imagined them all along. No matter. The way ahead was clear.
But behind him he heard hastening hoofbeats, and realised the village warriors were once more trying to close the distance. He urged his horse as best he could, but it faltered, stumbled, then fell, throwing him. He picked himself up and remounted, but by then it was too late. The village riders, fierce, eager, shouting, closed in around him.
"Togura!" shouted the headman.
The name was slurred, but Togura knew it for his own. The next moment, the headman slapped him, almost knocking him off the horse. Then there was an argument. Six riders had made the distance. Some, perhaps, wanted to butcher Togura on the spot. The headman finally mastered them to silence, then began to lead the way south. The horses, after all this hard treatment, could only manage a walking pace; they were not bred or fed to ride so far and so fast.
"Perhaps I'd better tell you," said Togura. "I saw some other horsemen back there."
The headman, who did not understand his Galish, swore at him, and slapped him again. Togura, his nose gently bleeding, did not speak again. He had not been on horseback for ages; as a consequence, he was now saddle-sore.
They were some way back toward the village when, shadow on shadow, horses came screaming out of some hunchbacked wasteland. Arrows sang through the air. Lances rode home. Horses screamed, flailing down to their death. Togura urged his horse away. An enemy rode up beside him, jumped, grabbed himround the neck and took him crashing down to the ground. Togura felt a sickening pain in his right leg. The enemy drew a knife and tried to stab him. Togura fought with all his strength. The knife moved steadily, inexorably, toward his throat.
If Togura had been made of sterner stuff, he would have devoted all his energies to the struggle, and consequently would have died upon the spot. However, he didn't. He panicked instead, and screamed:
"Help help help!"
An enemy, whirling out of a skirmish, heard Togura's voice, and hurled a spear in his general direction. The spear slammed home, taking Togura's attacker fair and square between the shoulder blades.
Killed by his own side, the attacker collapsed on Togura, who, thinking him still alive, damaged him dreadfully. Togura had just realised the man was dead when a horse, mortally wounded, collapsed on top of him. Suffocating, he fought it. By now he had a knfie in his hand. The horse rolled away, staggered to its feet, managed a few steps, then dropped again and died – this t
ime falling clear of Togura.
He breathed the sweet cool night air in lurching gulps, sweating with effort, trembling with adrenalin, his heart still doing a decathlon. Somewhere out in the night, someone was being killed, and the sound was not pleasant. Someone, close at hand, was groaning hideously. Togura tried to get to his feet. An agonising pain in his right leg persuaded him against such foolishness. After a little experimentation, he realised the leg was broken.
"Things are not improving," muttered Togura.
Then he heard someone walking through the night with a strange, shuffling gait. He decided it was best to play dead. He lay there with his eyes tightly shut, listening intently. Shuffle-foot wandered, paused, wandered, then fell heavily, and did not move again. Slowly, Togura opened his eyes.
Old Scar Face, the moon, floated above him, cool and remote. Somewhere close at hand, someone was crying bitterly. Togura listened, carefully, and ascertained that it wasn't him. Despite his current predicament he was, for once, dry-eyed and clear-headed.
Out in the night, some unknown animal cried.
Togura was still trembling – but now it was not adrenalin which was responsible, but the cold.
He could see it was going to be another of those long, long nights.
Chapter 32
Togura slept fitfully, dreaming that he was lying out under the sun with a broken leg. He woke to find it was true. The morning was still young, but already the day was dominated by unseasonable heat. His mouth was hot, dry, dusty. Flies picked their way over his face. He shook them off.
