by Nahum Megged
I recognized Xnen’s voice, chanting by the fire. The rest of the men must have sniffed the sun seed, and maybe the ceremonial tobacco too. Xnen scattered ashes around the fire and planted seeds in them. I also heard the voice of a woman, but couldn’t see her. The men all seemed to be warriors or shaman apprentices, as their bodies were painted.
On the other side of the cave, near one of the wall reliefs, was the shaman of the neighboring village. I easily identified him by the broad-brimmed mask that covered his face and the white eagle feathers. He was alternately sitting and dancing, muttering and screaming. From the few words I was able to understand, I realized he was addressing forces different from the ones Xnen was petitioning. His face, or the mask adorning it, was turned in a different direction as well. A teenage boy, probably the shaman’s apprentice, handed him a pumpkin vessel full of water. He broke the container and the water flew in all directions. Xnen stood up as if he had just seen a frightening vision and began to nervously move his head and hands, crouching like a toad, hopping and issuing a monotonous sound, occasionally interrupting it with a shrill call.
The magical war was underway. I thought the shaman of the neighboring village might be threatening to shatter the containers holding the water of the upper regions to flood the earth. In response, Xnen turned the people of his tribe into toads so the water wouldn’t harm them. I wished that in my world wars would take place only by using such images and metaphors.
But what was that feminine voice I kept hearing? Was it coming from the mouth of a young woman? Was one of the shaman apprentices using a high-pitched, girlish voice to indicate that many upheavals were about to take place? Maybe it was Mother Earth letting her voice be heard. I wanted to get closer to the shamans, who stood each in his corner, but an unfamiliar hand held on to me and prevented me from approaching the circle of the battle unfolding before me.
Unable to approach, I looked around the cave. There were many friezes on the walls, and in one of them I saw clasped hands, much like the ones I had seen on the carved stone. Next to the hands was engraved a circle of people, eyes closed, embracing each other. A light nausea began to bother me, like the slightly ill feeling that normally follows the sniffing of the sun seed, likely because of the smoke of the plants placed on the fire. I closed my eyes to overcome the nausea, but a stranger’s hand touched my face and opened them.
Xnen suddenly grabbed a long stick and struck the ceiling with it. There was the snapping sound of breaking branches. He must have hit the dense cover of limbs placed on the cave’s upper opening. The other shaman, clearly filled with dread, leaped closer to Xnen, and pantomimed redirecting the hand holding the stick. A woman’s voice soared from out of the commotion again, a twirling, crying voice.
I watched with wonder the vision revealed before my eyes, as Xnen, probing the cave’s “sky” with a stick, tried to open the gate to the upper regions, and the other shaman springing next to him and moving his hands in gestures of tying and pulling. Abruptly, a column of water broke from the place Xnen had probed, opening the cave’s gate and bringing the forest inside. I feared the gushing water would fill the cave and drown everyone inside, but soon I saw the water draining into channels I hadn’t noticed before, probably leading into a deeper cave, to an abyss below us.
The shaman of the other village threw himself on the ground and asked the gods and Xnen, their representative, for mercy. At least that was my understanding. And once again, the anguished cry of the woman chilled me. I still could not determine the origin of the voice, but it appeared to be coming from below, from the void into which the forest water drained. Could it be Minare, goddess of the forest and the rivers?
Xnen placed wooden bowls on a tray made of tree bark. He dropped burning coals in some of the bowls and ashen fruits he had drawn from the fire into others. He came to me, holding the tray, and the rival shaman approached me from the other side, holding a tray with bananas and pairs of sticks laid out in crosses. They kneeled and set the trays at my feet. Once more, an unknown person tugged at me and led me to the column of water still streaming down from the ceiling. I could hear the warriors scrabbling up there in the rain to close what Xnen’s stick had opened. And indeed, the torrent gradually weakened to a thin stream, then eventually stopped. I was thrust beneath the now-sealed opening in the ceiling. I was shoved from behind, and my legs buckled, forcing me to kneel. Strong hands on my head pushed my chin to my chest. I could no longer see what was occurring around me. Wet branches struck the back of my skull, and a hand pulled my hair, forcing me to raise my head. I was made to stand up, and my hands were lifted as well. I was pushed that way toward the opening of the cave. The weeping woman now sounded loud and clear. At the cave opening, my raised arms were lowered and a flexible branch was placed in my right hand. Those standing beside me turned their bare backs to me, and my hand moved on its own and whipped them. Each strike drew a cry from the mouth of the invisible woman.
Two shaman apprentices turned tortured, tear-streaked faces to me. They clutched at my body. I saw pleas for forgiveness in their eyes. They placed the end of the stick I was holding on their heads. Then they took it from my hand and connected it to another stick. Both sticks looked like the clasped hands carved in the ancient temple.
Once more, hands pushed me forward. I felt all alone in a forest weeping with wild waterfalls, even though I could still hear the chanting voices and the wailing of the woman. The hands of darkness continued to thrust me toward the path that led to the village huts. I saw a flash, and it seemed as if the nocturnal image, the Noneshi, appeared before me, far from my hut.
Between the branches screening the weeping of the skies, I heard your soft voice telling me, “I’m going out to get some onions. The store’s not too far, but I’m tired, so I’ll take the car.”
“You’ve turned into a lazy woman,” my voice answered and a smile curved my lips.
The hand continued to drive me on until I was in the village. I went into my hut. The burning candle awaited me, even though I had snuffed it out before leaving. I took off my clothes, then, naked and shivering, I dropped into the hammock and got into my sleeping bag.
Morning
A soulless night. No dreams had come to me, or I simply didn’t remember them. The clothes that had dropped from my body were no longer beside the hammock when I woke up. I must have slept soundly, as I heard no one enter my hut. I had not even been disturbed by the voices of the villagers rising at dawn. The rain had stopped; I did not know when. I went to the corner of the hut and took out some lightweight clothes from my backpack. The air was oppressively humid, and I wanted to go to the spring to wash my body. The women were already finished with their morning chores, and I knew the spring would be deserted.
As I gathered my things, I thought about the strange night, when everyone had behaved like efakuhe, shades, fighting the sun. And though the shades possessed voices and the voices had meaning, I could not discover that meaning. I had hoped sleep would bring me a dream to illuminate everything I had been unable to understand, but to my disappointment, the dream had closed its gates before me, retreated back into its cave, and was silent. Even the Yarkiti warrior, the Noneshi who had visited my hut four times, had apparently decided to vanish.
It was already eight in the morning. I had slept three or four hours more than I usually do. A strange, intimidating silence lay in the village. The Yarkiti must have already gone, I thought, begun their foraging at first light. I was struck by the thought the tribespeople had abandoned me, decided to move to another village because the rains had stopped, and left me alone in the forest. Was that my role in the nightly ritual, to part from the ones leaving?
There wasn’t a single soul in the village. Where had they all gone? I continued to the stream and found Yakura crouching beside it, washing my clothes. I found myself overcome with relief, and without thinking, started laughing. I hadn’t been abandoned, and the dear girl wa
s still my companion in the forest that had become my home.
A wide smile lit her face when she saw me. “They went to the village upriver,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because their cave gods need to approve the agreement as well. Tourkoch, the neighboring village’s shaman, asked this, and Xnen agreed to his request. Do you agree as well?” She suddenly turned to me, but quickly returned her face to the waters of the stream, allowing them to capture her gaze, which evaded mine.
“Me? Why me?”
A familiar droning came from the trees along the banks: The cicadas, silent for so long due to the rain’s assault, had come to life now that the storms had blessedly stopped.
Nighttime
I was waiting for the shadows to let me know everyone had returned. I understood why the shamans and the warriors had gone, but why had they taken the women and children with them? Women do not participate in wars and rites. Would I be able to endure this trial of loneliness? Yakura had not visited since morning, when she had brought me food cooked over a campfire. I was by myself, accompanied only by the winds, waiting. It was obvious they wouldn’t return soon. It would take a few days of walking and canoeing up the river in order to take them all to the neighboring village. And how many more days would pass before they finished their business there and began the trip home? I had no choice but to wait and see if I had come to possess some of the Yarkiti survival skills.
I lay in the hammock to rest. My eyes refused to close. The ability to write in my diary seemed to have escaped me as well. I was overcome with anxiety. The strange ceremony at the cave, the two shamans who had kneeled before me, the shoving and violent whipping, the tears… I was also bothered by the question of the identity of the woman whose singing permeated my memories of the cave. It seemed ominous to me that the tribespeople had left at dawn. Yakura appeared before me then immediately disappeared. Something was going on, and I could not understand it.
A scream tore through the night. A woman’s voice, possibly Yakura’s. I took the flashlight from my backpack, intended for emergencies only, and went outside to figure out where the scream had come from. But the echoes deceived me. Had it come from the cave of the night before? I looked for the path leading away from the settlement. I felt fear in my footsteps. I heard voices that probably existed only in my head. An unexplained force was drawing me on, and I felt I was marching toward the scream that had cut through the night. Perhaps it was old age. I could not remember the last time I had felt so afraid in the forest, especially since I no longer feared death.
I reached an isolated dwelling at the periphery of the village. It seemed to be filled with shadows. Trembling, I tried to enter the large hut — the home of spirits, which houses dancing shades and swallows all sound.
Someone had brought you to me, I do not recall who it was. I found you sitting — lying — in the car with your eyes shut. Blood dripped from your temple, unfamiliar faces looked at you through the window and argued.
“Are you sure it was an accident?” a man asked. “Did you see the way she smashed into the truck? It almost looked like suicide…”
“No way!” another man shouted. “What are you talking about? The truck driver drove like a madman. If anything, it almost looked like murder.”
But why? How did this happen? I tried to form the questions and couldn’t. Tears choked my throat.
The house of spirits was silent. The shadows disappeared as soon as I entered, but I felt many eyes watching me, invisible eyes. My skin was chilled, no matter the warm, humid air. I strained my eyes, alert for movement, but the stillness closed in on me.
I decided to go back to my hut. After a few steps, a scream rent the silence again. I stopped to see if I could ascertain the source of the voice — cave or village — and was met with silence. In the house of spirits, the movement of the shadows resumed. Gripped by fear, I hurried back to the village, imagining hands fumbling to grab me from every direction. I understood it was only the movement of branches, but that did nothing to alleviate my fear. And Yakura, where was she? I tried to hold on to the familiar. The village was lost in its abandoned sleep, but a few candles were burning in my hut. Who had lit them? I turned to my diary for solace. I determined to write down every detail, so that I would believe my own memories. I felt that someone was watching the hut from the darkness of the jungle. A noise. It was raining again.
Three in the Morning
The rain had stopped. A different sort of noise filled the forest — the rustling of movement through the undergrowth. The rhythm of the footfalls told me it was an animal. I lit the candle again. Maybe the light would attract whatever the footsteps belonged to. A canine head peeked into the hut, a black-brown dog, large and imposing. It looked like a German shepherd. I could hardly believe my eyes: There were no dogs like that in the forest nor were there any wolves, and the Yarkiti’s small dogs looked nothing like the creature that stared back at me. And dogs followed their masters, but here was a strange dog roaming about, a dog that looked like the ones owned by gold seekers or woodcutters. Did foreigners come to the camp with them? That didn’t seem likely. In such heavy rains, anyone caring for his safety slept soundly and waited for a respite. And the distance between the gold seekers and the village was too great. It would take many days to get into the heart of the forest where the Yarkiti made their home. And there was no gold to be found in the nearby streams. But the dog must have come from somewhere. Was my imagination playing tricks on me again?
In the morning, they let me know that Amir, my German shepherd, had been found dead, poisoned. I rushed to where he lay. I picked up the body of my faithful companion. The gentle creature that had accompanied me for so many years, had accompanied all of us. Amir knew everything. Every time we thought the children were lost, he immediately got going, leading us to them. I lifted the precious body of my best and most loyal friend, whose unconditional love had never ceased to thrill me. I covered him with a blanket so my children wouldn’t see him like that, his face twisted in the sleep of death. I also covered him with tears. I buried Amir in the yard and marked the burial place with a stone. The children held on to me and cried as only children can, noisily, without embarrassment. Fortune had struck us another blow. What could we do but stand together, embrace each other and weep?
I managed to track down the dog and followed as he continued toward the central house, the large round hut. I hesitated before going inside, as it was forbidden to enter the place without Xnen’s and the village elders’ approval. In the corner of the house, blazed a resin torch. Who had lit it? I didn’t see the dog or any people, only elongated shadows winding from the pillars. I climbed the stairway — a thick branch carved with deep slots — to the upper level. I looked down at the ground floor, and a pair of glowing eyes reflected the flashlight’s beam. I hurried down, but the dog had disappeared again. It seemed as though he was familiar with the place. Did the villagers know him?
I gave up on the dog and went back inside to examine something that had caught my eye. Someone had left behind a walking stick, the kind that mountain climbers use, leaning against one of the pillars. I had no doubt the stick had been brought to the forest from the outside. I raised it and looked at its European carvings. I deliberated whether I should take it back to my hut to examine its decorations in the daylight and return it after that, but eventually leaned it back against the post. Like Xnen’s staff, this artifact may have earned its place with the tribe as a relic used for the most secret rituals. It might be best that I didn’t move it about. Once again, I felt I was being watched, but I couldn’t see anything or anyone. I returned to my hut and fell asleep.
Morning
I looked for Yakura at the spring and found nothing but the water leaping from rock to rock. I might need to hunt in order to eat. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I returned to the round hut. The walking stick was not where I’d left it. Had it been no
thing but a nocturnal delusion? Good thing I had written everything down, because I tended not to trust my own memory anymore. I went up to the second level. The tied bundles that had been there the day before were gone as well, only the fruit not taken on the journey remained. I took some of the fruit and some paste made of vine roots. I would need to survive on those until the villagers returned. I would never be able to bring myself to kill an animal, and once the monkeys discovered there was no one in the village, the fruit covering the large hut would be gone as well.
I continued to look around the hut. A book lying in a corner caught my eye, a journal, I thought. I looked at the cover. The letters were clear. Leafing through the pages, I discovered these were probably the notes of renowned anthropologist Herbert William, one of the first Westerners to reach the Yarkiti, about twenty years before. On one of his expeditions, a journey to New Guinea, on the other end of the world, William had disappeared. Some claim he had been eaten by the members of a hidden tribe whose members believed eating his flesh would give them some of his wisdom. William had written a dictionary and practical guide to the Yarkiti language, without which I would have been lost. I had read all his books and expended no small amount of effort to locate old writings describing his first encounters with the natives. A few years ago, in a New York museum, I found one of his handwritten journals. The curator could not explain how the journal had reached the museum. Reading that journal had not been easy. William was a great researcher, but his handwriting was almost illegible. I wrote my own notes based on what I could understand and copied a map of the area of his travels. From what I had been able to decipher, I deduced that William wasn’t familiar with this village and its inhabitants.
