All this was hypothetical, for only two Seers walked the earth. Eventually, Manassa knew, there would be only one Seer.
He cursed himself for being so stupid as to involve the white man.
He could help me with the after-pain. It is my only stumbling block.
On the other hand, he could slow everything down.
Manassa had meditated in trance for several hours after Edward had so abruptly left the village. He had to find his course after the unexpected turn of events. Manassa did not foresee any way that Edward could stop him, even if Edward completely turned on him from the moment he set foot in Lisbaad. I’ll give him some rope and see if he can fix the after-pain.
It was obvious that Edward was still with him, still wanted the substance. Otherwise Edward would have simply left without a confrontation.
Manassa walked out the temple’s secret exit, directly from his quarters through a hole dug out of the ground. It let out at the edge of the jungle. He walked toward the clearing with the ancient tree where he’d slain the panther. He’d trapped it in a cage a few weeks before the coming of age and released it for the “show”.
It was time. Usually, Tomy would accompany him for such an occasion, but his messenger was out on other business. I’ll need more messengers.
Manassa reached his destination as the morning mist finished evaporating. He peered out the edge of the clearing and saw several hundred of his Onge gathered. There would be more. Manassa had requested the presence of every man, woman and child, which would amount to well over a thousand. It would be the largest assembly they’d had in living memory. Even the most important of rituals did not involve everybody.
Manassa watched his people, unheeded. Their attention was scattered. The hunters of the tribe, particularly, seemed jittery. They did not like sitting in the clear like that for any reason. They knew what happened to animals that did so. The rest of the villagers were involved in conversation, bored, but not rushing to return to their toils in the midday heat.
Manassa bided his time, thinking over his speech. Finally the crowd swelled to the desired size. A couple priests of Manassa’s inner circle sounded gongs at the rear of the assembly. The Onge turned their heads to see their god arrive.
Manassa took that moment to scamper into the clearing and up the tree. He perched on a branch he’d chosen the day before. It supported his weight, and the whole mob would be able to see him easily.
“MY PEOPLE!!!” Manassa shouted to the backs of a thousand heads. They all jerked around to see him. A thrilled buzz swept through the crowd. He felt its electricity. He was in his second trance in less than twelve hours. He would need to rest for several days after this, but his performance here was crucial.
Under the trance, he could hear and process every word spoken by every one of his Onge. He knew this crowd more than any performer had ever known his crowd. “Manassa, he appears…he is truly a god…look, he’s in the tree…look!…Manassa!” they murmured to one another nervously.
Mannassa let his cry ring out again. “MY PEOPLE!!!” He projected his voice so that its echo permeated the air all the way to the trees of the jungle, so that it reached the ears of every Onge in his village.
The mob stirred as one. “Manassa!” they sang out in unison. That shout, given at every one of Manassa’s public appearances, never sounded as it did that day. Triumph rang in their voices. Their god exuded a wave of exhileration, and the Onge rode it willingly.
Manassa knew in that instant that he had succeeded. He had created his image. Now it was time.
“YOU ARE THE CHOSEN!” Manassa shouted out from the tree top.
“AS ARE YOU, OUR LIVING GOD!!!” They didn’t stop yelling after that. They shouted and clapped furiously, stomping and singing. The youth cut loose from their parents and ran to one another, jumping and pointing in excitement. They cried out his name. Manassa felt the tree sway with all the stomping and shaking on the ground.
It was an interminable time before the Onge began to notice that their leader had said nothing further, but rather stood patiently in his tree watching over his people. One by one, the exultation of the Onge settled into rapt attention.
Manassa took in the eyes of every one of his villagers. Every face would guide his speech. He would change the very fabric of Onge culture in this moment.
When Manassa started speaking again, his voice was calm and clear. He modulated his volume until the last person at the back of the clearing, standing in the path, could hear him perfectly, but no more. He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t even sound like he was making a speech. He was sharing a deeply personal communication with his people. “My people, beloved, I have brought you here today, on the grounds where I shed my mortal skin, that I might share with you my vision.”
He heard some of the villagers say, “Tell us…Tell us…Tell us your vision.” Their wide eyes, their bated breath, spoke more loudly to Manassa.
“I was born with a vision,” he continued. “It is a godly vision. Yet it is a vision that I am sure you have seen, too. Every Onge has a touch of holiness in him; else we would not be guarded by the Watcher, else I would not have grown here as the seed of our Creator.
“In this god-sent future, I saw myself at the throne, I saw myself chieftain.” He saw nods of agreement, a couple uncomfortable glances to Nockwe, who was standing near the front of the crowd. They had all had that vision, even the women, Manassa was sure. It was in their upbringing.
Manassa pressed on: “But I was not myself in this dream; I was the tribe. And the tribe I ruled was not this tribe, but rather all the tribes of the earth and sea.” The crowd was silent, now. He read their faces. They dared not hope; though they knew the prophecies of Manassa, they dared not hope.
Manassa shifted in the trees. “I knew it was a godly vision, for it was one that any mortal would have rejected. You, my people, rejected it, though you’ve seen it yourselves countless times. You look at the people of other lands, with their powerful weapons and incomprehensible culture. The greatest of you felt threatened and ineffective; the weakest of you felt inferior. All of you are forgiven for forgetting what it means to be Onge. Mortal vessels cannot hold immortal treasure.”
Manassa let his voice begin a slow crescendo. “But now is the time for me, the Onge child-eternal, to give you back the treasure you dreamed of but let slip from your grasp!”
They were nodding agreement. The younger men were sold. Still, he knew he’d have to win the elders. He had to win everybody. “How could a thousand men, women and children come to lead the world?” asked Manassa. “How could we have prosperity, and never starve, and never be sick, and never die?” Murmuring erupted in the crowd. Excitement bubbled over, even amongst the older men. It was another of the prophecies of Manassa.
Manassa let the buzz lull before he continued. “I ask you another question, far more relevant. HOW COULD WE NOT!?” He shouted, giving the crowd permission to go wild. They did so.
“It is this god’s vision. So it shall come to pass,” he said, but no one could hear him. It was a long time before he could speak again.
When he did so, he spoke a little quieter, so that the Onge in the back had to quiet and strain their ears. “My people, our heroes of old all had powers and abilities. Some called down lightning to defeat their adversaries. Others rode chariots from the heavens. We will need such a weapon.
“My Onge, I have provided it to you: I have called down a nectar from the heavens that makes us invincible to our foes. This is my greatest miracle, one that will take us to our destiny.”
There was quite a din of back and forth discussion in the crowd. They’d lost all discipline in their ecstasy, though they had no idea yet what he meant.
Manassa had made sure a small circle in front of the tree remained clear. One of Manassa’s inner circle of priests stepped into the ring. He was experiencing “the lightness” - what Manassa called the effects of drinking the substance, rather than injecting it. The priest walked to a b
asket in the center of the ring.
“Behold, I have blessed my loyal priest with the nectar!” shouted Manassa. The priest pulled the top off the basket. Six birds flew out. They scattered in the air. Another man stepped into the ring and handed the priest a semi-automatic rifle.
The priest pulled the weapon up and spun in a circle. He squeezed out six shots from the rifle as he did so. Many of the Onge were taken aback at the loud spit of the gun - very few had seen such a weapon fired before.
All six of the birds dropped nearly simultaneously. Each had been an impossible shot on the fly. For a moment, not a soul was breathing in the clearing. Then absolute pandemonium broke loose. The crowd was in uproar.
Manassa bellowed at the top of his lungs, riding the wave of their exultation, “BEHOLD, THE POWER OF THE NECTAR! THE POWER OF MY MIRACLE, MY GIFT TO YOU, MY PEOPLE!!!!!” The Onge jumped up and down, screaming blessings and curses. They settled into a chant.
“Manassa! Manassa! Manassa!”
Their god could not help but smile. For the first time in living memory, his people were excited, happy, empowered.
Manassa had planned another demonstration, but he’d save that for later. He could not get them into a higher foment than this. “JOIN ME IN MY VISION!” he screamed.
They roared back at him once more. “Manassa! Manassa! Manassa!”
Manassa jumped down from his perch, flipping from branch to branch and finally reaching the ground. Behind the tree, no one could see him leave.
When Manassa returned to his temple, not a soul was in the village. And yet, he could hear his people’s voices shouting in unison all the way from the clearing.
“Manassa! Manassa! Manassa!”
22
Edward hiked to the port town of Lisbaad, the only “civilized” district on the island. Lisbaad had a small church run by two Jesuits, and a few Catholic nuns instructed a school, so once he arrived Edward took no chances with the main streets and cloaked his head.
The roads were narrow, made for carts, but a few cars kicked up dust here and there.
Aside from the occasional anachronism, the town was a full century behind Western civilization. For Edward, who had lived with the Onge for months, it was a mighty advance.
He arrived late at night and purchased board at a run-down inn on the southern outskirts of the town. Of course, everything was run-down, not just the inn.
A few merchant seamen manned the bar, each sipping on something unhealthily brown. Edward asked the small Oriental innkeeper for a room. The man led Edward up the stairs and unlocked a creaky door.
The innkeeper showed him around. The wire frame under the mattress had stray springs falling out, and the room stunk of mold, but to Edward it was quite an upgrade from his straw pallet. Not that it matters. Edward’s mind was fixated on what the future held, not on the inconveniences of the present.
In any event, Edward had never much cared for material things. Knowledge, on the other hand…
“You come from the south?” the old man asked in Tamil, which Edward fortunately understood.
“I do. I have a question for you,” said Edward.
“What is that?” The man stroked the wispy white hairs that languished on his chin.
“If I were sick, where would I go?”
“To the doctor,” answered the little old man.
“Well, yes.” Edward smiled. “But where in this town would I go?”
“To the east end. You are white, so you would see the white woman. She has the clinic. You wouldn’t want to see the brown man.”
“No?”
“No.” The man did not elaborate any further on that point. “She charges whites,” he continued, “but you have rupees, so she would help you.”
“Thank you.”
“What is your illness?” The old man’s eyebrows furrowed. He actually cared. Edward stifled a laugh.
“I appreciate your concern,” Edward answered. He ushered the innkeeper out.
Once alone, Edward took a deep breath, checked the room and locked the door. He lay down on the mattress. It sunk in the middle and felt divinely comfortable. A room all to myself. He slept deeply for the first time in weeks.
23
Nockwe sat behind the closed door of his hut, staring into the fire pit. The chief’s hut was one of the few dwellings with its own cooking fire. His wife stood behind him, also watching writhing of the flames. He had her stand behind him so she could be there and yet not distract him from his meditations. His three children were sleeping in the bedroom, which was only divided off by some bamboo hanging from the ceiling of the house. His second children and second wives lived elsewhere. He was responsible for the three families of the men he’d slain.
The chanting of his people played over and over in his mind. Manassa! Manassa! Manassa! He did not yet know what to think of it. It was something new, something he was ill-prepared for.
In all his time as chieftain, he’d operated on the rule that if something was surviving, only change could destroy it. Only change could improve it, this was true, but all too often one was disappointed.
This boy is change.
Nockwe had not yet made a judgment on what that change meant.
This boy fulfilled the prophecies of our forefathers. He is a leader, and inspires the people. These things are good.
Nockwe had never seen his people so spirited. They were so proud.
But to where does he lead us?
In all things the chieftain serves the tribe. It was a line from their oral history he often repeated to himself. It said tribe, not god. No matter what religious significance Mahanta assumed, Nockwe would always serve the tribe first.
Nockwe did not like to think about such things. He wished he could do as everyone else and simply follow Manassa.
The white man had been right. It had been a drug.
Nockwe’s mind drifted to other things…to the white man who had saved his life, whom Nockwe had tipped off against his own better judgment. Nockwe was certain that Mahanta would not let the white man live a season. As soon as the white man was no longer useful, he would be sent to death to rejoin the Earth. Such was the way of the Onge in times as these.
It feels like war times. Is war upon us?
Nockwe stood up and rubbed his head with his hands. He wiped these matters out of his mind. It was too late at night to be dwelling on such things.
Nockwe felt fortunate that his cough had left him Saturday morning. He had fallen asleep while in the lightness after supervising a training session, and when he awoke he felt like he had never been ill. Disease had always left him quickly once he broke it. All that was left was some tiredness.
His young wife came to him, rubbing his back and his shoulders. He felt her warm skin against his. It was a different, richer sort of warm than the fire. She pressed against his bare back and held him. He sighed. His muscles relaxed along the exhale of his breath.
I will be ever watchful. But I must stop thinking. I am a chieftain, not a medicine man nor a philosopher.
“Is something wrong, Nockwe?” asked his wife.
“No, my guardian. There are only thoughts, shadows. There is nothing wrong.” He closed his eyes and concentrated on her skin. “Bri,” he said, turning around to face her. He kissed her forehead. He said her name again. “Bri’ley’na.” It meant literally “Bright Sky.”
She took his face in her hands and looked up at him. Her rich chocolate eyes conveyed her concern. “I worry about this Manassa. You may kill me for saying it, but still I worry.”
He kissed her forehead in an effort to soothe her but said nothing. He did not want to betray his own doubts. She would be able to hear it in his voice.
She pulled back again slightly, more agitated. “You have always lived for the tribe,” she said. “I don’t know if this is Manassa’s way, too. Something else may be driving him.”
He told her what he had told himself. “I’ll be watchful, Bri.” He stroked the long, flowi
ng hair along the side of her face. “I will be careful. I will always serve the tribe.”
“And I will be careful for you. And I will always serve you,” she said. He smiled.
She pulled him to her gently and kissed his mouth.
24
Manassa stood at his “throne”. It was a joke to him, his chair, but it had the effect he needed on his Onge. One day he would need a throne that would impress more than just a tribe of primitives, but also popes and kings.
One day very soon I’ll need more to impress my Onge.
Tomy knelt facing him to his left, Nockwe to his right. The boy stifled a yawn. It was still several hours until daybreak.
“You were awake when I sent for you,” commented Manassa to Nockwe.
“I was,” acknowledged Nockwe.
“Much on your mind?” asked Manassa.
“A chieftain’s mind must never sleep,” answered Nockwe.
“Please stand and report,” said Manassa.
Tomy took his turn first, as had been the tradition since this temple had first been erected. Nockwe was the only member of the tribe who ranked higher than Manassa’s messenger, and that was only within these walls. Outside the hut, even Nockwe had to feign lending his ear to the boy.
“Internally, the Onge as a whole are excited. They talk of nothing but your sermon at the clearing, the gun and the birds. They are ready to do your bidding. There remains only a small knot of dissenters.” Tomy paused for a moment.
Manassa nodded, giving his consent. Tomy tilted his head to signify his understanding. Nockwe missed it, still looking intently at the ground as was protocol.
The young man continued his report. “Externally, we have secured seven vehicles, some guns. I have not been to town for two days. Our ears are slow here, in the village. There is no phone, no way to get a message across. I am working on this.”
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