Chapter 17
Zan had once thought that after she knew the way to Meadow-with-Watering- Hole she would do nothing but go there every day. But every day there was something else to claim her attention. Burrum laughed when Zan fretted. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow you will go.” If tomorrow came and Zan did not go, then Burrum only said calmly again, “Tomorrow.”
There was no sense of urgency among the People. Each day had its rhythm, its pattern, but no one rushed or hurried for anything. As far as Zan could see, the closest they got to work was gathering food and collecting fallen branches from the forest for firewood. The caves required no upkeep, clothing was minimal, and garbage was kicked aside in the cave or piled a distance from the fire.
Adults, as well as children, spent entire days in the water, floating, diving, splashing one another, and catching fish. At night, families would visit back and forth. Often there would be as many as two dozen people around Farwe’s fire, talking and telling stories. One night when they had company, Burrum asked her father to sing. Raaniu stood up, crossed his hands on top of his head, and sang about walking through the forest with his daughter. “We go softly in the forest like Wind, Wind hears all that we say, Miiawa hears, We go softly in the forest.”
“Do you hear my father sing?” Burrum said proudly, pinching Zan’s arm, even though Zan was sitting right next to him.
Zan wondered what her parents would say if they could see how much time Burrum’s people spent singing, gossiping, teasing the children and each other, or playing games. Everyone played games. A kind of pick-up-sticks with tiny fish bones. Another game like bowling with water-smoothed stones. And the women had a game like a dance in which they sang and tossed a melon backwards over their shoulders to one another.
Grown women playing games! Zan could remember seeing her mother playing only once. Years before, her parents had bought her a pair of ball-bearing roller skates with red leather straps. One day she’d come home from school and seen her mother skating up and down the dark hallway outside their apartment. But the moment Zan appeared, her mother had pulled off the skates and run inside.
One afternoon Zan devised a kind of hybrid baseball-touchball game. Burrum and Sonte and the other young people eagerly took to running around the bases she laid out, shouting and enthusiastically throwing a melon to each other. Although she couldn’t get across the idea of teams and competition, for several days Zan’s game was what everyone wanted to do. Then they tired of it. The next afternoon they all started out to find honey, but, coming to a long sloping meadow and feeling languid from the heat, they stopped to rest.
“Aii, how cool and fresh Grandmother Earth is today,” Naku said, collapsing onto the ground. She and her sister, Noomia, were usually more interested in painting in Cave-of-No-Name than in anything else. Zan had never been to the cave, so she had no idea of what they painted.
Sitting in the grass, Burrum and Em’Fadi wove flowers into chains. A bit clumsily, Zan followed suit. It was a dazzling, clear day. Everywhere pink and yellow flowers made gay patches of color. Hills dotted with evergreens curved upward on either side of the meadow. Far away were the sharp blue peaks of the mountains, ridge after ridge of mountains.
“This morning, my sister Meezzan went to Meadow-with-Watering-Hole,” Burrum said, putting on a wristlet of flowers and holding up her arm to admire it. “And so the poor thing did not have any of those little brown turtle eggs Sonte and I found.”
“I don’t like turtle eggs,” Hakku said. “Nor does my brother.” He and his younger brother, Goah, were handsome boys with large, egg shaped eyes. They were inseparable.
“Oooh, those turtle eggs are delicious,” Em’Fadi said, patting her belly tenderly.
Akawa, Diwera’s daughter, sat down gracefully next to Zan. The loops of polished nuts and seeds around her neck swayed with her movements. She looked at Zan mockingly—or was it friendly? Zan couldn’t decide. Akawa was tall, with a proud, almost disdainful air. She rarely played or sang or shouted with the abandon of the others, and often went away on her own. She seemed, to Zan, to give off a secret inner light. Akawa, she thought, must be very like her mother, Diwera, whom Zan never saw without feeling a shiver pass through her.
“You went to that big rock again, Meezzan?” Akawa said.
Zan nodded. Whenever she hadn’t been to the boulder for a few days, she became uncomfortable and ill-at-ease because she had been eating, and playing, and sleeping well, while far away, somewhere terribly far away, her family was grieving over her.
“What is there at that rock?” Akawa asked, leaning forward, long hands clasped around her knees.
Zan shook her head, smiling slightly. She linked arms with Burrum, partly out of affection, partly to show Akawa that she was at ease. Akawa continued to stare at her.
“Meezzan.” Em’Fadi touched Zan’s arm. With relief, Zan turned away from Akawa’s gaze. “I would go to that meadow with you,” Em’Fadi said. This girl never asked for anything directly. If she wanted a fruit someone else had, she would say, “That fruit smells so good!” and open her eyes wide until she was given a piece.
“Perhaps I will take you,” Zan said kindly, although she neither needed nor wanted anyone at the boulder with her.
Puzzling over Zan’s repeated trips to the meadow, Burrum had worked out for herself that Zan spoke to the spirits of her family at the boulder. This, she understood and approved. She was, on the whole, a very approving, easy person to be with. The one time Zan had seen Burrum truly irritated was when she tried to tell the girl about cars, telephones, hot water, TV, and airplanes. It was all incredibly clumsy, anyway; she had to say things like, “The water comes hot like sun from a hole in the wall,” and “People in my place fly like birds in the sky.”
Burrum didn’t believe her, but more than this, she didn’t even want to hear about such things. When Zan persisted in trying to make the girl believe that people flew in the sky, Burrum had turned on her, exclaiming, “Oh, you make my stomach feel so bad with this foolish talk! I feel sick now, maybe those eggs we ate this morning were bad. Maybe you are going to get sick, too,” she added spitefully. And she had stamped away, muttering to herself.
Later, however, she regained her good spirits and suggested to Zan that what Zan had really meant to say was that Beyond-the-Mountains there were spirits (like Miiawa) who could become fish, or birds, or whatever they chose.
Now she draped a necklace of flowers over Zan’s neck and hugged her affectionately. Zan yawned and slid down on the ground, hands behind her head. Through half-closed lids she watched Sonte throw a stone to a point beyond the trees. At once, Hiffaru leaped up and threw a stone also, the crushed side of his face turned away from the group. His stone fell short of Sonte’s, and although it shamed her a little, Zan was pleased. After Burrum, she liked Sonte the best of all the young people. He laughed at her in a way she didn’t mind and taught her the names of trees, birds, plants, and insects. He was quick-tempered and when she forgot things, he would seize her face in his hands to impress his words upon her. But when she remembered well, he smiled gloriously and tugged her hair or hugged her. He was affectionate and teasing with everyone except Hiffaru. Between the two boys there were always sparks.
Tiring of throwing stones, Sonte flung himself down next to Burrum who draped him with a necklace of flowers.
Hiffaru sat down on the other side of Burrum. “Are we seeking honey today?” he said. “Let’s go and find that honey.”
“I don’t want to do that anymore,” Sonte said. He looked around at the others. “Tomorrow, I think, we won’t go for honey, either. We’ll make a raft.”
“A raft!” Hakku shouted, and his brother Goah echoed, “A raft! What a good idea.”
“Yes, a raft!” The cry was taken up. But Hiffaru turned his head away aloofly, refusing to be drawn into the excitement.
The next day and for several days after, the young people foraged in the forest for logs that were dry, sound, and li
ght enough to float. They shouldered each log and carried it to the river bank. There, when they had enough, they lashed them all together with vines. Late one afternoon they pushed the raft into the water. It dipped, bobbed, then floated. A cheer went up. They dived into the water, swam to the raft, and crawled aboard.
Sitting low under their weight, the raft slid smoothly down the river. Sun flecked the water. Clouds of butterflies wove through the air. The water flowed beneath them like green silk. For a moment, no one spoke, and for Zan the silence, too, was green.
That night at the fire everyone wanted to hear about the raft, and Burrum told about their trip in detail, not forgetting when Hakku had pushed Goah into the water. “Aii, those boys,” the old grandmother said, her hand covering her mouth as she laughed.
A few nights later, Burrum again told the story of building the raft and floating down the river. It seemed that everything was talked over not once, but numerous times, each time eliciting laughter or groans of sympathy. Food, dreams, and animals, sickness, accidents, births, and deaths—all of these were the stuff of conversation. Everything that happened to everyone was passed around. And not only those who were living, but their grandparents, great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents were spoken of in intimate detail. It was as if everything that had ever happened to those long-dead people was as fresh in the memories of the living as the events of their own lives.
Stories were told and re-told till Zan began to feel that she, too, knew how Aspa, Burrum’s maternal great-grandfather, had burned his hand in a fire when he was a small boy. Or how Miiniu, Farwe’s aunt, had once, as a girl, leaped onto the back of a deer.
“Mahu is going to tell a story,” Burrum said one night, seizing Zan’s hand. “Hiffaru told me. Mother, Mahu is going to tell a story!”
“Oh, let’s hurry,” Farwe said, shoving a last bit of food into her mouth.
It was dark and there was rain in the air, but people streamed in to settle around Mahu’s fire. Zan had heard of this woman known as the Teller: an old woman with an erect back and little, fiery black eyes. Looking at no one, the Teller waited imperiously in the center of the gathering till they had quieted. Then she began her story, telling of Olima, the Great Fish Mother, from whom the first people had been created.
Zan saw Diwera in the crowd, squatting like everyone else, listening intently. Zan was surprised; she rarely saw Diwera in the groups of people that went everywhere together. (Once the Wai Wai had come noiselessly on Zan and Burrum in the forest, looked at Zan for a long moment, then walked on. Remembering this, Zan felt a chill of fear.) But for Mahu’s stories about spirits, good and bad, about the Anouch’i and the Bear People, Diwera came.
Another time Mahu told Miiawa’s story, acting out every part. It was extraordinary. She seemed to shed years, sex, skin, to become the cringing, sneering Hera Hera Hutumy, or a frightened animal close to drowning; then, in another moment, springing through the air, she was Miiawa, a thing of wind, leaves, and water, both spirit and woman.
After the story was told, the old woman appeared very tired and went into her cave, but for a long time Zan and Burrum, still caught up in the magic of Mahu’s telling, sat before the fire.
There were stories, and there was music, too. On a night when the moon was full, Ainu, Mai’bu, and Farwe took bunches of grass and held them to their mouths, making high strange wonderful sounds. And Ainu’s man, Keyria, brought out a small reed on which he blew like a flute.
The stars were large in the sky, the fire warmed Zan, Burrum’s hand rested affectionately on her shoulder. And for that moment Zan was content. She looked from Farwe to Burrum to Keyria, still playing, his thin body drawn up toward the reed, moving with the haunting sounds as if he were, himself, music.
These people! Zan could no longer think of them as crude, unfeeling savages. She knew how they laughed, and played, and sang, and told stories. She knew they had nothing in the way of comfort, but seemed not to need or want anything more than they had. How strange. And how much stranger that, sometimes now, she felt almost the same way.
Chapter 18
“Meezzan. Meezzan.” Zan slowly opened her eyes. It was morning, and Burrum was whispering in her ear. Zan looked toward the cave entrance, framed by trees. Was it hot outside? Raining? Foggy? Inside the cave, the temperature was always the same, day and night. Ah, the sun was shining. She stretched sleepily. When was the last time she woke, her stomach jerking in panic, as she stared at the stone walls of the cave? She couldn’t remember. She only knew she no longer felt uneasy about the cave, the countless rooms, tunnels, and corridors that wound deep into the mountain. Children were never allowed to wander into those areas. It was said that long ago two little babies had been lost there and never found. Even now, on some still nights, the Auuhmaa said she could hear their Tariana crying. “Those poor babies kept me awake!” she said, after a sleepless night, and she reached to hug Lasba, her smallest grandbaby.
In general the adults showed little interest in the depths of the cave, but Foomia, Burrum’s young uncle, had a passion for exploring. He’d take a torch and disappear for hours. Once, Zan and Burrum had gone a short way with him. The walls rose in places higher than the torchlight could reach. There was the gurgle of distant water and the rustling of bats. Zan had wanted to go on with Foomia, but Burrum had been uninterested. Half asleep, Zan’s mind drifted into those dark passageways again . . . bats . . . and . . . a deep chasm . . . she was falling . . .
“Meezzan, don’t go to sleep again!” Burrum shook her. “Meezzan, my blood has come!” The girl pointed to her thighs, which seemed to be smeared with juice. There was a hollow feeling in Zan’s chest. Burrum had spoken often of the Sussuru, of her longing to be part of it, of her disappointment that her blood had not come down yet. And Zan had confided her own disappointment. “Ahh, Burrum,” she said sleepily, “I am happy for you.”
Now Farwe woke and was told the news. She hugged her daughter repeatedly. As Burrum’s father, uncles and aunts woke, they, too, were told. The bedding where Burrum had slept was thrown off to a dark unused part of the cave, and fresh leaves were brought in. “Today you go to the Women’s Stream,” Ainu said. “Yes, you go to the Women’s Stream!” She took Burrum by both arms and danced around with her.
Burrum sat down, out of breath, laughing and fanning her face. “When I was a little girl and went with my mother to the Women’s Stream, how I longed to go by myself!”
“And now you will,” Aunt Mai’bu said, holding little Lasba to her breast to suck.
“Yes,” Burrum said. “Yes!” Then to Zan, “One eats only fruit there and bathes in the stream and talks with the other women.”
“I remember when my blood came down for the first time,” Farwe said. “Do you remember, Mai’bu? Our father dreamed of water flowing in a river from the sky. When he woke up he felt so happy. He said that since he dreamed such a fine thing on the very night when I had my first blood, it meant I would always have a happy life.” She turned to her husband. “Raaniu, did you dream a good dream for your daughter? Surely, you did! Come, tell us your dream.”
Raaniu pulled at his ear. “Aii, I have no dream for my daughter,” he said. “Do not be angry, daughter. I slept too well.”
“I remember my dream,” Zan said, as they left the cave and hunkered down around the fire. “Burrum gave me a big yellow egg, but I dropped it and it broke.” In the dream Burrum had said, Oh, no, it will never be the same. And Zan, close to tears: But I want it to be.
“The egg broke? I do not like such a dream.” Burrum covered her belly with her hands and twisted away when Zan reached out to her.
“Aiii, an egg breaking!” cried Farwe, pulling at her hair. “You had a bad dream for my daughter. Look how her belly hurts!” Mai’bu and Raaniu stared accusingly at Zan. She was sorry she had mentioned her dream. A dream wasn’t real. Yet she remembered now that on waking she had been overcome by a mysterious sense of loss.
“What are these sad face
s on this happy day!”
Pointing to Zan, Aunt Ainu gave one of her big laughs. “Everyone knows this daughter of Others is a foolish girl. She climbs trees like a fish on land. She pushes away worms and beetles. Good food. Yes, she is foolish, and I say she does not even remember her dreams properly!”
Burrum had brightened, and everyone looked relieved. “It will be good if our daughter is as clever as her mother,” Keyria said proudly, patting Ainu’s belly.
Mai’bu found a smooth little pebble and gave it to Burrum. “Will you make your marks for your blood on this, niece?” With the sharp edge of another stone, Burrum made a single scratch on the pebble. Mai’bu jiggled her baby on her hip. “That is the way,” she said approvingly.
“Each morning, now, you must make your mark,” Farwe added. “Tonight, look at the moon. When it rises again as it is tonight, your blood will come again, too.”
Smoothing the little pebble in her hands, Burrum turned to Zan. “Miiawa has smiled at me. Before I go to the Women’s Stream let’s find some eggs and leave them at her grove. Then, perhaps she will smile on you, also.” She squeezed Zan’s arm. “Don’t be sad. Your blood will come down, soon, I am sure of it.”
“I’m not sad,” Zan said, pulling up the corners of her mouth. “See my smile.” But it was true that in her heart she felt envious of Burrum.
For two days, Burrum went to the Women’s Stream; then she told Zan her belly was longing for her, and on the third day she didn’t go, but used the leaves of the Xongo bush, which were soft and spongy and soaked up blood.
Those two days Burrum was away were the first Zan had been without the other girl, and on the second day she decided to explore the unoccupied caves. How ignorant and fearful she had been at first about the caves! But since those early weeks she had gone, at one time or another, into almost every occupied cave, surprised to find each one different in some way.
Saturday, the Twelfth of October Page 11
