A baby wailed. The cry rose, thin as Moonlight, out of the silent crowd. There was no whispering now. The story was twining itself around the hearts of the People. We couldn’t move or speak. The story had caught us.
‘Bakar heard the dog bark. He started running. He came out of the birch-wood. The dog was racing towards the dolphin. Bakar saw two men by his meat. He tore across the sand. The dog was faster.’
‘No!’ ‘No!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘No!’ The cries of the People echoed round the mound.
‘Bakar reached the dolphin,’ Aitor shouted above the noise. ‘His dog lay dead. Both men had blood on their hands. They’d been taking meat. One man held a reddened knife.’
‘They took his meat!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘Bakar!’ ‘They took his meat!’
‘They’d stolen his meat,’ cried Aitor. ‘His dog lay dead. Bakar pulled his knife.’
Aitor whirled round to face the Lynx People. ‘Will we strip these men? Have they scars on them? I think they have! I think Bakar of the Auk People left his mark on them! There were two of them, and one of him. The Dolphin saw that fight. That Dolphin knows that Bakar left his mark on these men!’
The crowd broke into a roar like a great wave on jagged rocks. In terror I cradled the child in my belly; I thought the People would rush forward and knock us down. The noise washed over me. Was I the only one, out of all the Auk People, who felt for a heartbeat as if that wave were crashing down on me? This story had nothing to do with me – except for my son . . . my own Bakar! I wanted more than anything in the world that this story should have nothing to do with me!
‘Listen, you People! Listen!’
The Drums crashed. ‘Listen, you People! Listen!’
The People grew quiet enough for me to take my hands from my ears.
Aitor’s voice sounded soft as a snake as silence crept back into the crowd. ‘That Dolphin gave himself to Bakar of the Auk People! That Dolphin could still smell the thyme which Bakar burned for him. That Dolphin saw these two men steal Bakar’s meat and kill his dog! That Dolphin saw these two men kill Bakar! That Dolphin saw these men throw Bakar’s body into the marsh! It saw them take their boat and flee! Those men knew the tide would wash away all trace of what they’d done.’
Screams and taunts washed over us as Alaia, Sorné and I were shoved towards the Healing Place. We gripped the children tight. Not the width of a hair stood between those Lynx men and death. ‘No! No! No!’ Now the screams were my own. ‘Not Kemen! Not my husband! No! No! No!’
‘Stop!’ The spirits whirled round Aitor’s head. Men stopped in their tracks. Slowly the quiet settled. I looked up, and saw the oak trees far above in the Moonlight, tossing in a gentle breeze I couldn’t feel down here.
‘Listen to me!’ Every face turned towards Aitor. ‘You see this man? You see him? This man Basajaun wronged the Heron People. That’s why he left Heron lands. After he’d killed Bakar he didn’t dare stay in Auk lands either. He sailed to another Heron Camp where he wasn’t known. His boat was full of dolphin meat. The Heron People were hungry. They didn’t ask questions.’
The crowd muttered, and fell silent. The story swept on, and caught us in its wake.
‘The Dolphin knew where Bakar’s body lay hidden in the marshes. If that Dolphin hadn’t watched, Bakar’s spirit would be buried still. How could the Animals see him? Those men – those men you see standing there – had hidden his body away from the clean air, where no spirits would find him! That was worse than killing him! Bakar had wronged no one! You see these men? You see them? What kind of cowards can these men be?’
The crowd surged forward with a huge roar. It broke against the sides of the mound and fell back.
Aitor held up his arm. Spirits flashed from his open hand. ‘Be quiet, all of you! Wait! This story is almost at its end. Treat it with respect – it’s getting old! Just wait a little longer!’
‘Now listen: that Dolphin saw Bakar’s danger. But Dolphin didn’t know the marshes – he’d never hunted there. Swan knew. Dolphin spoke to Swan, and Swan took Bakar’s spirit from where it lay, and flew up with it out of the marshes. Swan ran across the water, splashing with every step – a man’s spirit is heavy, and not used to flying – then took off into the air.
‘Dolphin and Swan searched through the lands where the Auk People hunt. They found Nekané. They helped her. At last, these murderers – these men you see here – came back – finally driven out by the Heron People – as the spirits knew they would be. At last the spirits are able to speak. This is why the Animals won’t speak to us about the Hunt! It was these men – these you see standing here! They caused it all!’
Amidst the screaming, jostling crowd I clung tight to my son. I held him to my heart. I looked in horror at my husband and his brother, alone up there on the Healing Place. This crowd – my own People – wanted to kill Kemen! Whatever I’d feared at the beginning, it had not been this!
Kemen didn’t look at them. While Aitor was telling his story Kemen had covered his face with his hands. Now he stretched his arms up to the spirits and gave a great cry. ‘Oh, Basajaun! Basajaun, my brother!’ Kemen beat his fists against his chest. ‘Oh, my father! My father! Oh, my fathers of the Lynx People! Oh, Basajaun, my brother!’
Kemen’s cries died away. He pressed his hands against his face.
Basajaun’s right hand clasped the hilt of his knife. He threw back his head and met Aitor’s gaze. He looked as fine a man as Edur. Edur is a great hunter. But Basajaun wasn’t a hunter any more. Basajaun was the Animal at bay.
Zigor’s harsh voice broke across my thoughts. ‘These men have wronged the spirits of the Auk People! Now they must give back what they took, or die for ever! Our spirits say to them: “Choose! Choose now!”’
He looked down at the three Lynx men. ‘Choose now! Either your names go out of the world for ever, or you give yourselves! The sea took the land where you hunted. You brought your angry spirits here! You stole meat! You did murder! Yet the spirits of the Auk People are kind. They let you choose: will you give yourselves, and put right the wrong you did? Or will your names die forever?’
I pushed Bakar into Sorné’s arms. I shoved Alaia and Sorné aside. I knocked over the children in front of me. Heavy-footed, I ran to the Healing Place.
‘No! Not Kemen! Kemen didn’t! Kemen’s my husband! Kemen’s one of the Auk People! He did no wrong!’
Nekané and Zigor ran down to meet me. They seized my hands and swept me upward. I couldn’t run as fast as them. My legs gave way. The wind carried us. Moonlight glinted on the trees below. The sky was cold. Strong hands held me. We flew so close to the Moon I felt her warmth. I’d never known that Moonlight could be warm. On earth we only see it like the fire from a far-off Camp on a different island.
The warmth of the Moon was kind. Before I hated my mother she held me to her breast. Because she kept me warm I lived. Only later . . .
‘What happened later, Osané?’
The voice was kind. I looked down. I saw the dark shapes of islands in a wrinkled sea. I saw a string of islands. On the highest island I saw our Camp in Egg Moon. In the Moonlight I could see very far. I saw many eggs lined up. I saw my mother hold each one to her ear and shake it. She laid them in the fire and smoothed the ashes over them.
On that island a little path leads uphill through the bracken. The bracken swishes when a man walks through. The bracken . . . I was still a child.
‘What happened later, Osané?’
‘I can’t tell you that!’
The hands slipped. I thought I’d fall. I caught my breath as they turned me. The sky was cold. Gathering Camp lay far below. The Moon shone into the clearing. Kemen’s cry hung above the treetops. ‘Oh, Basajaun, my brother!’
‘Itzal said that man raped you. Shall he die?’
‘No! No! He did no wrong!’
‘Your brothers say that man raped you. Must he die?’
‘No, no! Not my husband! No!’
&n
bsp; ‘Itzal said that man raped you.’
‘No! No! It wasn’t him! He knew . . .’
‘What did Kemen know, Osané?’
‘He knew – I couldn’t speak – I never said a word . . .’
‘But he knew . . . ?
‘He knew I’d been hurt.’
‘Who raped you, Osané?’
Bracken fronds brushed our feet as we flew. The bracken swishes when a man walks through . . .
‘That’s where it began, Osané. Then in the end he tried to kill you. Would you let Kemen die for him?’
I was falling into the bracken. I was a child. I was crying, ‘Oh, my mother! Oh, my brothers! Koldo! Oroitz! Itzal! Why didn’t any of you save me?’
‘Who raped you, Osané?’
The bracken swished. I saw Kemen’s hands covering his face. ‘Not Kemen! It wasn’t Kemen! Kemen never did me wrong!’
‘Who was it then, Osané?’
I was crying . . . I cried out . . . How can I tell you this? Even now, how can I . . . No, don’t, leave me alone . . . I can speak. All this must be remembered. I can tell you now.
I spoke my father’s name.
SEVENTH NIGHT: GATHERING CAMP
Esti said:
I remember this part. So can he – can’t you, Bakar? We remember because we were scared. We clung to Alaia. It was worse for Bakar – it was his own mother out there with the Go-Betweens! He was crying: ‘Mamma, Mamma!’ Of course, Osané couldn’t hear him. No one else took any notice. Bakar buried his face in my mother’s shoulder. ‘Alaia, Alaia! I want my Mamma!’
Osané cried out her father’s name.
We didn’t know what it meant. There was a lot of shouting.
They dragged Osané’s father into the clearing. He’d been hiding in his tent. They pulled him up to the Healing Place. They forced him to face the Go-Betweens. I thought the Go-Betweens were cruel. I didn’t know . . . I thought they were being cruel to him like they’d been cruel to Osané. He was Bakar’s grandfather. Bakar didn’t know him. I’d known my grandfather but I didn’t remember him. Haizea and my mother often told me stories about how my grandfather and I used to love each other. I’m sure it’s true but I don’t remember any of it. My grandfather hasn’t come back into this world yet. I hope he will while I’m here. I want to know him. Bakar’s grandfather was still in the world, but he was no good to Bakar. I thought he might as well have been dead. Later, when I understood, I wished he had been.
That night – oh yes, I remember that night. I saw a man sent away for ever. Most People get through a whole life without seeing that. I’d been back in the world for less than seven Years. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.
I still dream about it. In my dream I’m alone. My People have cast me out. I have nowhere to go. I can find food. I can build a shelter. I can make myself a cloak. But why would I bother to live in an empty world? The Animals are there. They don’t know I’ve been cast out. The spirits are there. They don’t care whether I’ve been cast out or not. But I’m not an Animal or a spirit. I belong to the People. If the People won’t have me back, the world is as empty for me as before the Beginning.
When things go badly for me I have that dream. Not very often – usually things are good. But if I’m sad, or angry, or lonely, then I have that dream. The dream began the night I saw Osané’s father sent away. His name has gone out of the world. He won’t come back. That means my dream can’t go away.
He was a big man – bigger than my father. He didn’t fight. There were too many men holding him down. Maybe he wouldn’t have fought anyway. It wouldn’t have done any good.
Zigor’s words struck like a spear. The big man seemed to shrink. He looked like an Animal too wounded to run.
Zigor cried out, ‘Look at your sons! Look at them!’ He paced to and fro above Arantxa’s sons. Angry spirit-lights whirled around his head. The young men cowered.
‘See Koldo, Oroitz and Itzal – your sons! Shall the People cast them out?’ A great gasp rose from the People. Oroitz and Itzal clutched one another’s arms in terror. Zigor never looked round. ‘You! You’re their father! Should Koldo, Oroitz and Itzal be cast out? What could anyone do to deserve that?’
Zigor stood over Arantxa’s husband, and swung his arm round to where Arantxa’s sons stood open-mouthed in horror. ‘You won’t say? Then I’ll tell you! Listen, every one of you! Hear this: two things only deserve that a man should be cast out! Only two things! One of those things is to let your parents starve!’
Itzal had covered his face with his hands. ‘You are no father to them!’ cried Zigor. ‘They owe you nothing. They must never give you anything in this world again! No, even if you starve, Koldo, Oroitz and Itzal must never give you food again!’
He turned round, and pointed straight at the cowering man. ‘The other thing you know. If a man takes his daughter, his sister or his mother he will be cast out! Cast out for ever! If a woman willingly takes her father, her brother or her son, she will be cast out! Cast out for ever! But if she’s raped, it makes his wrong the worse. You raped your daughter! Once would have been wrong enough. You did it often – how often none of these People can bear to think. She was a child! Osané has done no wrong. You wronged her! Not only Osané – every one of the Auk People now suffers for the wrong you have done.’
Zigor called the man by name.
‘You hear your name? You will never hear it spoken in this world again. I call you by your name, and tell you to leave us. Go! You no longer belong here! Go where you will – the world is wide – but never come near any of the Auk People. Seize him!’
All I could see were men’s backs. All I could hear was People shouting. From their midst came a shriek that cut me to the bone. I clapped my hands over my ears. I couldn’t make it stop. Shrieks echoed through my head, high and broken, like a pig being eaten alive.
‘Mamma!’ Bakar screamed. Alaia let go of both of us. We were crying.
Then Osané was there too. Bakar clung to his mother. He was howling. I held on to my mother. I didn’t like her running off like that, even to fetch Osané. All four of us clung to each other.
Later I saw that man again. He was alone, crouched on the ground, whimpering. His back had gone away. The place where it had been was black and shining. His back had turned into blood.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Later I understood. They’d taken their knives and scraped away the marks that said who he was. Now he wasn’t one of the Auk People any more.
They sent him away.
The People fell back to let him pass. No one wanted to touch him. He staggered towards us. He’d picked up his deerskin tunic. He was holding it in one hand. Blood slid down his bare arm; it dripped from his wrist. Alaia pulled me out of his path.
He saw Osané. She held Bakar’s face against her shoulder so Bakar couldn’t see. I was the one that saw. I saw how that man looked at Osané as if he were an Animal about to die. He didn’t ask for anything. I couldn’t see her face. I don’t know if she gave anything back.
All the noise had stopped. The silence was terrible. No one spoke or moved.
He walked away. The People parted to make a path for him. Only his dog wanted to follow him. Edur held him by the scruff of the neck until his master was out of sight. No one spoke until Osané’s father had gone away into the darkness of the woods.
Only the dog kept whining. Edur tied him to an oak sapling. The dog went on howling long after the men had gone to the Hunt. Neither Arantxa nor her children made any sound at all, but the dog howled enough for all of them.
All night long the dog howled for his lost master. Later I got to know that dog well. After a while he started following Itzal around, and so Itzal became his master. That dog settled down, but every Year when we came to Gathering Camp he’d leap out of the boat before we’d even landed, tail high, and rush ahead to the clearing, barking with excitement. Osané’s father still lived in that dog’s heart; it was the one place left where no p
ower on earth could wipe him out.
Nekané said:
At my back I heard the footsteps of the Animals, softly at first, growing louder as they drew near. Now the three Drums behind me were beating out the footsteps of the Animals. My Drum joined its voice to theirs. I listened to the footsteps of the Animals, and I drummed what I heard. No woman had done that for as long as any of the People could remember.
The footsteps drummed louder. They came from the very edges of the clearing. The ground shook under my feet, beating out the footsteps of the Animals.
The three Lynx men stood on one side of the Healing Place, and Arantxa’s three sons on the other. All but Basajaun stood with bowed heads. Itzal had his hands over his ears. Kemen kept his face covered. Only Basajaun outfaced the spirits. The spirits swirled round the six men, making fiery patterns in the air, winding the men together in ropes of blood. The Animals caught us in their footsteps as we drummed. Through our Drums they beat out the pulsing cords that held those men together. I raised my head and saw how the red cords stretched back to the Beginning, and disappeared into the hidden Years ahead.
Aitor cried out.
The Drums stopped.
The footsteps vanished. Feeble echoes of their beat stuttered from the gathered People, and died away.
Aitor held his hands up to the spirits. To us he was a black shape outlined against the fire. The People on the far side of the fires had to strain their eyes to see him through the wreathing smoke.
Aitor spoke. ‘These men standing here are shamed by the spirits. Every one of them has cause to be ashamed. What will we do with them now? Do we want men who are shamed to live among us?’
The People were silent for many heartbeats. Then someone stepped into the Moonlight from my own hearth. I peered through the smoke, but only when he spoke did I recognise him.
Amets looked up at the Go-Betweens and said, ‘We’ve no choice, Aitor. Show me a man who says he’s not ashamed about anything and I’ll show you a liar. We’re all shamed. I can tell you what I’m ashamed of myself.’
The Gathering Night Page 29
