How could I resist? I climbed in and she pressed against the length of me, all warmth and soft fur.
I was glad for her company on the loneliest night of my life. There were plenty of other dogs in the village. Let them be the fierce ones.
8
Nothing more was said about my manhood.
When the ancients selected Luki’s mother, Chochon, to cast the rice seeds into the beds at the foot of the mountain, I put a polite smile on my face even though there was no gladness in my stomach.
When the ancients offered another chicken to the spirits and loudly begged them for rain, I shouted along with everybody else and helped the men build a great fire.
When the seed beds thickened with bright green shoots, I joined in everyone’s laughing and exclaiming. ‘A fat crop!’ we cried. ‘Our granaries will soon be full!’
I smiled and I celebrated and I prayed. As if I cared that the rice valley was getting enough to drink. As if I cared that the harvest was going to fill our bellies. As if I wanted to please our ancestors. But deep inside I felt nothing but the scratching of that thorny vine.
The moon had been full when Father left. Slowly, it waned to a skinny sliver, as if dark jaws were nibbling away at it in the night. And still Father didn’t return.
One day, I made my way up to a stone ridge just above the village, the black dog scrabbling eagerly beside me. Luki appeared out of nowhere and quietly fell in step with us. I did not send her away.
She was dressed in a skirt.
When she’d turned up at the House for Men in a breechcloth, Salluyud had lectured her. ‘Men, women and children should know their place in our community,’ he’d said. ‘What would happen if everyone decided to do whatever they liked? If one decided they could not be bothered to help with the rice fields. If one decided they did not want to fight the enemy. Our people would be obliterated from these mountains!’
Luki had promised she would dress properly. That she would honour the work of the women. That she would stand with the women up to her knees in muddy water and turn the precious soil.
And so far … I glanced at my friend. She seemed to be keeping her word.
We had almost reached the ridge when Luki spoke at last. ‘The wind is colder here!’
I shrugged, staring up at the single tree that grew out of a crack in the stone, reaching up and up and up like a giant weed, even though there was only dust and the endlessly blowing wind to nourish it. It whipped about in the fierce gust.
Luki bent to rub between the dog’s ears. ‘How about we name your dog “Chuka”, Sam? It’s a nice name, isn’t it?’
‘Dogs don’t have names.’
‘But look at her.’ Luki took the dog’s black face and turned it towards me. ‘She wants a name.’
I looked at her. The melting brown eyes gazed lovingly into mine. Chuka, I thought. And then shook my head. ‘She wouldn’t know the name belongs to her.’
‘Look at her! She knows it’s her name.’ Luki whistled. ‘Chuka!’
The dog grinned and barked, tail wagging with excitement as if she approved.
I ignored them, marching up to the tree.
‘What are you doing?’ Luki called.
I grabbed the tree’s trunk and pulled myself up.
‘I’m not going up there with you,’ Luki said.
‘I’m not asking you to come,’ I replied.
‘Why are you climbing, though?’
I didn’t answer, pulling myself even higher. I didn’t want to explain myself. I didn’t want to tell her that I wanted to get as high as I could, that I wanted to see all the way to the lowlands, that I wanted to see whether Father was on his way back on the trail.
‘Sam?’ A shuddering gust of wind snatched her voice away.
Father once said if you walked right through the forest to the other side and kept on walking until the mountains dwindled, you would come to a broad, raging river. This was where our world ended and the lowlands began – vast, endless flat plains that rolled all the way to the horizon and beyond. I shuddered, finding it hard to imagine. A mountainless place! It sounded strange and desolate.
The river was easy enough to cross, with care and luck, Father had explained. He had done it successfully twice, hadn’t he? Over and back, when he delivered Kinyo to his aunt. But it was not a thing to do lightly because the spirits of our ancestors would not follow into the lowlands. There was no one to protect us there. We Bontok relied on the spirits of our ancestors to make sure that our babies were born fat and healthy and not cross-eyed and sick, to keep our houses from being blown away by storms, to guard us against the ancestors of our enemies.
I climbed beyond the safety of the lower, sturdier branches, up, up, up into the sticks and singed leaves at the top.
Far below, I could hear Luki testing the dog’s new name. ‘Chuka! Chuka!’ Her voice was a reedy, distant murmur.
When I could find no more branches that would take my weight, I stopped and surveyed the vista below me.
Our village was a small cluster of thatched rooftops. All around there were water-filled rice paddies, hundreds of them, ranging up and down the mountain, in and out of the mountain’s folds, hacked out of the slopes by our ancestors when they were still living men. The irregular shapes were like the patterns on a lizard’s back, the glinting blue sky reflected in the diamond scales.
The ancients were selecting the best grain from the granaries to be planted in seedbeds at the mountain’s feet. Once the shoots were tall enough, the seedlings would be planted out in the paddies to ripen into grain, turning the lizard scales green. The grain would be harvested, leaving the lizard scales brown with mud. And then the process would begin again.
The path across the terraces was a white, wiggling stripe that followed the contours of the mountain then dropped down into the mossy forest. I could just see it emerging on the other side of the mass of dark green, before it disappeared behind a stony mountain.
I watched the white stripe for any signs of Father while Luki played with Chuka below. Then I climbed down. The next day, I did it again.
The sun rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. The moon slowly fattened up again.
And Father didn’t come and didn’t come and didn’t come.
9
The seedbeds were soon tall with green. It was time to plant the seedlings out into the paddies.
On planting day, leaving Chuka snoring in my bed, I packed a small lunch basket of rice and fish, then hurried to the House for Men. Higher up on the slope, warriors were already in position on dirt mounds, standing guard in case the Mangili decided to attack as we worked in the paddies. Men with great baskets of manure on their head were already making their way carefully across the terraces on the narrow trail.
The sun had only just breached the horizon, but the day had already turned from cold to hot. My neck was prickling with sweat by the time I entered the courtyard where the ancients waited, swaddled in their blankets as if it was the middle of the night.
They seemed half asleep – Salluyud, as usual, toying with his bamboo knife, Pito, eyes closed, lips pursed like a small flower, and Blind Maklan staring into the fire. Dugas was leaning against a post, actually snoring even though he was on his feet.
Little Luki arrived, plucking at her skirt, as if it was made of itchy ivy.
Slowly the courtyard filled with children and mothers with their babies. We formed two orderly queues in front of the ancients, children on one side and mothers with babies on the other.
‘Spirits!’ Salluyud solemnly intoned. ‘Protect our precious ones while their mothers work in the fields.’
I felt Luki’s elbow in my side. She was smirking. ‘Precious ones,’ she said quietly.
‘They thought you were precious too when you were a baby,’ I whispered, elbowing her back. ‘Everyone knows better now.’
‘Silence!’ Maklan yelled, scowling in our direction.
One by one the women kissed their babies a
nd surrendered them to the ancients. The ancients in turn distributed the infants to us waiting children like sticks of sugar cane.
If only they really were sticks of sugar cane.
Dugas picked up a baby with a big head covered with thick, bushy black hair. He beckoned to Luki. She accepted the baby, nose wrinkled, as if she was being handed an armful of water buffalo dung.
Pito held up Baby Baba, who was the size of a suckling pig. He staggered towards the queue of children and we all shrank back at the sight of the giant infant. Baby Baba was teething and he had tiny, sharp biting teeth. I prayed to Mother, Please, grant me any baby but not Baby Baba!
‘Samkad!’ Pito roared, dumping the huge infant into my arms.
‘Ba-ba-ba!’ Baby Baba cried joyfully, clamping his teeth into my shoulder. I felt something hot and wet sliding down my leg.
I held him away from me, his weight practically pulling my arms out of their sockets. His bottom ejected a small stream of yellow mush.
‘Ha ha! Fertilizer!’ Pito called. ‘Well done, Baby Baba!’
‘Ba-ba!’ Baby Baba said.
There were two rice valleys. The first, nearest the village, was called First Valley. The second, just beyond the ridge, was called Second Valley, although everyone called it Second Best because the first valley was always first to be weeded, first to be tilled, first to be planted, first to be harvested.
First Valley was full of people shouting, singing, complaining and arguing as they worked the paddies. How was anyone supposed to put a baby to sleep? Luki and I headed to Second Valley, which was so quiet the babies we were minding spent most of the day asleep while we lolled around on a grassy embankment.
It took an age for us to work our way across – too many people with huge baskets of manure on their heads, marching up and down the steep embankments. We had to keep giving way, stepping off the path into the thigh-deep paddy water. Nobody asked us where we were going.
Up on the ridge that divided the two valleys, Tambul was standing guard. As we climbed up the tiers to the ridge, I shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to identify the small figure standing next to him.
I sighed. It was Bitteg, holding a spear that was double his height. No doubt the ancients had assigned Tambul to be Bitteg’s mentor. It should have been me, I thought, willing my feet not to walk in the other direction.
Tambul greeted us with a shout.
‘Hail, Samkad. And hail, Luki-in-a-skirt!’
Luki smirked. ‘Hail, Tambul-in-the-tiniest-breechcloth-in-the-world!’
Tambul burst out laughing and Bitteg blushed as red as a radish, dropping his spear. He barely caught it before it splashed into the waters of the paddy below.
‘Is that Baby Baba?’ Tambul pointed at the baby on my hip. ‘Respect! I swear every time I see Baba, he doubles in size!’
‘Where are you going?’ Bitteg said in a soft voice.
‘Bitteg!’ Tambul clicked his tongue. ‘That’s no way to be a guard. Be commanding. Demand an answer!’
Bitteg bit his lip and nodded.
‘Go on, you know what to say.’
‘Nobody’s allowed into Second Best,’ Bitteg mumbled.
‘Why not?’ I cried. ‘We were allowed last year!’
‘Because the ancients say so.’ Tambul shrugged.
‘But …’ I began.
‘We’re not going to Second Best,’ Luki interrupted.
Tambul raised an eyebrow.
‘No,’ Luki said. ‘Actually we’re here with an urgent message from the ancients.’
Tambul looked sceptical.
‘Yes,’ she continued. ‘They want you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Luki shifted her bushy-haired baby on her hip and shrugged. ‘That’s the message. Salluyud looked so angry I thought he was going to explode. Isn’t that right, Samkad?’
I tried not to grin. ‘Uh huh. Salluyud was spitting like a cat.’
‘You’d better hurry …’ Luki began, but Tambul was already flying down the steps to the village trail.
‘I’ll be right back, Bitteg!’ he called over his shoulder.
As soon as Tambul was beyond hearing, Luki whirled round and began climbing the last steps over the ridge.
‘No! Nobody’s allowed to enter Second Best today!’ Bitteg cried in a squeaky voice.
Luki laughed. ‘A little more practice and you’ll get it right, Bitteg. Come on, Sam!’
‘But but but …’ Bitteg stammered, his forehead suddenly shiny with sweat. He lowered his spear to block my way, but its weight yanked him abruptly down. He tumbled head first into the rice paddy below with a loud splash.
Luki and I crossed the ridge into Second Best without a backward glance.
10
The First Valley had been shiny and neat, the paddies filled to the brim with water, and the stone embankments pristine – we’d been weeding them for weeks. But Second Best was a mess. Every gap between every stone in every embankment was hairy with weeds and the mud of the paddies were stubbled with cut stalks from the last harvest and matted with vines.
Our favourite spot in Second Best was a terrace just below the ridge that was so long and thin that nobody ever bothered planting it up. It was basically just a broad ledge covered with long grass. We spread out our blankets near the stone wall of the higher embankment and laid the babies, kicking happily, on top.
‘Do you think they will roll off?’ I mused.
‘If we sit here, on the edge, we can stop them rolling off,’ Luki replied. ‘Even if they do roll off, the paddy below is just soft mud.’
‘But there’s so much manure down there!’ I said, doubtfully.
Luki snorted. ‘It won’t make any difference to the babies. They already smell like poo!’
I peered deep into the cleft of the valley. Scrubby pine trees gathered at the bottom. I could hear the trickle of an unseen brook. There was a cave down there. The cave drilled deep into the bowels of the mountain and out the other side to the far end of the mossy forest. If the Mangili decided to attack, this was where the village was meant to flee.
There had only been one instance, since I began to remember, that we fled to the cave. I was no longer a baby, but not yet really a boy. I remember Father leading the way with me on his shoulders, and the ancients waving us past. Behind us, the other villagers trudged in slow procession. Up high on Father’s shoulders, I kicked and cheered as we left them far behind, and were the first to enter the cave. The smoke from Father’s torch puffed up to the cave ceiling and I squirmed with excitement at the sight of pointed stones, hundreds of them, thrusting out of the cave floor, like giant boar tusks.
We made our way down an endless stony corridor. It wound left and right and round and round until at last it opened onto a high-ceilinged cavern, with a bright green gash in the stone ahead. The gash was a fissure the height of four men, but only wide enough for one person to walk through at a time. And the green was the mossy forest beyond.
‘This way.’ Father was speaking softly as if he was afraid the trees would overhear him. ‘This way.’
‘Wait,’ someone called behind us. ‘Samkad. Stop.’
‘Yes?’ Father and I replied at the same time.
It was Father’s friend, who was a little man, just a head and shoulders taller than me. Everyone called him Kacho, after the tiny sluggish fish that swam in the river. It took a lot of kacho to fill one belly.
‘Samkad, my friend! It’s all right!’ He slapped Father on the back. ‘No need to run now. The strangers are just traders. They’re not dangerous.’
‘Not dangerous?’ Father repeated. I remember feeling a shiver in my belly at the quietness with which he said it.
‘Truthfully, Samkad. They mean no harm,’ said Kacho. ‘The ancients have agreed to let them to stay. They sent me to tell everyone to go home. Many have already turned back. It is safe.’
Father nodded as if he agreed. But he picked me up and sat me on his should
ers, the tendons in his neck hard ridges under my legs.
Kacho continued. ‘They don’t speak our tongue, but they’re very friendly. They gave us all a sweet drink from the lowlands. And rice cakes. Delicious.’
Father sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was careful. ‘I think young Sam and I will stay here in the forest,’ he said. ‘We’ll return when the strangers have gone. Will you let the ancients know?’
‘But seriously, Samkad, they’re not here to fight us,’ Kacho insisted. ‘My children loved their rice cakes and they have been respectful to my old parents.’
But Father would not be persuaded and we walked away from Kacho to set up camp and await the strangers’ departure.
It was the dry season. I remember helping Father collect banana leaves to lay on top of a frame made of branches, to shelter us when we slept. I remember the faces of monkeys watching us from the trees. I remember Father catching a small gecko and tying a string around its neck so that I could play with it. I remember listening to its strange, loud cries of ‘Took-oh! Took-oh!’ I remember hoping that the strangers would never leave so that Father and I could hide in the forest forever.
Not many days passed before Tambul turned up, sent by the ancients to fetch us home.
I was so caught up with my gecko that I didn’t even say hello. Nor did I notice the way his head drooped between his shoulders or how urgently he and Father whispered to each other.
‘We must go home. Now.’ Father’s voice was hoarse.
I raged and stormed as he untied my gecko and let it scuttle into the bushes.
On the steep approach to the village, we began to hear a noise. It was the wind, moaning in the trees, I thought.
But it wasn’t.
As we crested the ridge, we saw a procession of people amongst the houses.
They carried bundles wrapped in blankets. Six of them.
Bone Talk Page 4
