Saturday, the Twelfth of October

by Norma Fox Mazer

  The women and children emerged onto an open plateau broken by great slabs of red rock. They crossed two open fields and climbed another hill. On the crest of the hill, the honey tree, a hollow tower, scarred and battered, rose above the other trees. The wind creaked through its ancient, leafless branches as the women danced around it, knocking on the thick trunk and calling to the bees to come out. They built a fire of grass and leaves, feeding it lavishly till smoke encircled the tree. Burrum thrust a stick into a hole in the tree and brought it out dripping with honey. “The honey! The honey for my son,” N’ati cried in delight. Everyone dipped a finger into the honey and licked off the sweetness. The next chunk was wrapped in a leaf for carrying back to the boys. Smoke puffed into the air. A low moan emerged from inside the tree. “The bee people are talking,” Lishum said. The moan grew louder. From high above their heads, the bees spilled out a black-gold stream pouring straight for the honey seekers. Zan had a brief moment of fear before she realized that the bees, drunk on smoke, were too groggy to find their targets. To everyone’s amusement they managed only to sting Lishum on his upper arm. Lishum scratched the stinger out with his fingernail and went right back to the honey.

  On their return, the women carried the chunks of leaf-wrapped honey to the boys, who devoured it and then plunged into the river to bathe. After this, surrounded on all sides by their families and friends, the boys went back to their caves.

  Only a few days later, the Season of Rains began. Day after day, morning and afternoon, in an unbroken rhythm, rain poured from the darkened sky, while wind bent the trees and sent birds flying like leaves through the air. Whitecaps foamed over the river. Nothing could be heard but the pounding of water on trees, rocks, and earth. Between morning and afternoon, the storm would break, and for a while the sky would be washed clean.

  Then Zan, emerging from the cave, or perhaps a hollow tree where she had sheltered from the rain, would drink in air that was sweet enough to taste. Every day, the sweetness of the air and the water surprised her afresh. Sometimes, lying on the bank of the river, drinking, she would suddenly recall the metallic taste of water at home and how it often came out of the faucet stained a dingy yellow.

  But she didn’t like the daily rains. She couldn’t get used to being wet and then dry, and then wet again. Burrum, however, was overjoyed. “Rain Moon and Moon of Tears. That is all, Meezzan!” Then the red flowers would bloom in the forest, and Burrum would take part in the Sussuru. Hardly a day passed but that she mentioned the festival.

  Early one afternoon before the rain, Zan, Burrum, and the other young people, with Lishum and Ai’ma following them, went out searching for the Gikko, a queer, twisted tree with clusters of long sausage-shaped fruits. After plucking the fruit, they broke them open to expose the fat seeds, which they sucked hollow.

  When the sky darkened and the wind sprang up, bringing the rains, they tore off the thick, flat Gikko leaves and, covering their heads, hunkered down beneath the trees. After the rain stopped, the air was cool, even though the sun had emerged. Zan shivered. “A fire. Let’s build a fire,” she said, and everyone scattered to find dry wood and tinder.

  As he often did, Lishum trailed Zan, helping her gather twigs and leaves. A branch, split down the middle, was stuffed with plant fibers and placed on the growing heap of twigs. Breaking off the tough-looking stem of a bamboo-like plant, Sonte threaded it through the split branch, then pulled it vigorously up and down through the crumpled fibers. Nothing happened. Hiffaru took over. His arms flew up and down in a blur of motion. The plant tinder burst into a little shower of sparks, which he quickly blew up into a fire.

  “That is the way to make a fire,” Hiffaru said with satisfaction.

  Sonte’s face darkened. He stalked off and pulled himself up into a tree.

  “Come down here by the fire,” Burrum said coaxingly. “Sonte, come and sit with all of us.”

  ‘“The fire is good,” Zan added, hoping Sonte would come back at her call. But he turned his face away, whistling as if he were perfectly indifferent to all of them. Since the boys’ ceremony he had become, if anything, more stubborn than before, and more openly hostile to Hiffaru. But that went both ways. Right now, Hiffaru looked delighted to have irritated Sonte.

  Throwing more wood into the fire, Zan stretched out her hands. Next to her, Lishum stretched out his hands, also. When she shifted, he shifted. When she stood up, he stood up. Each time he imitated her, he threw her a mischievous, sparkling glance.

  “Lishum, little fish eyes, I have a brother like you,” Zan said.

  “I know this,” he said.

  “Yes, you do. I have told you this before.”

  “Tell me again,” he said. “I want to see your little brother.” He looked around. “Meezzan! Where is he? At the caves? Who is his mother?”

  “His mother is—Bernice.”

  “Burr-neess!” He chortled over the name. “Burr- neess! Where is she?”

  “Yes, where is she?” his cousin Ai’ma said in her deep voice.

  “She’s at my home,” Zan said.

  Lishum folded his arms across his chest, regarding Zan seriously, then shook his head. “Meezzan, here is your home, your cave! No Burr-neess!”

  “I have another home,” she said. “You know this. I told you this, also.”

  “I forgot.” He sounded dubious. “Where is it?” Frowning, he looked around. “Oh, at the caves, yes, now I know!”

  “No, not there, foolish little fish. Another place,” Zan said. “Far away.”

  “Far away? Where is that? Where is far away?” It was difficult, perhaps impossible, for Lishum to understand. His whole world was contained by the river, the caves, the forest the meadows and streams and swamps he was already beginning to know well, just as Zan had learned the streets of her neighborhood when she was a small girl. But even then, when she was as small as Lishum, she had already known that the world was crowded with people. It had never surprised her when she went shopping with her mother to go on thronged streets, or into stores crowded with strangers, to see everywhere countless, unknown people. Lishum, on the other hand, knew everyone in the world. Why not? Didn’t they all live in the caves? And hadn’t everyone always lived in the caves since the first People were created by Olima, the Great Fish Mother, who had swum out of the river to cast them forth from her belly?

  That Zan came from another place where there were other people was actually incomprehensible to the little boy. He had heard of Beyond-the-Mountains, but it was only a phrase. It was not real like Place-of-Night-Sun where, someday, when he was very very old like his Auuhmaa, he would go to meet all of the people whose spirits had left their bodies. He decided that Zan was teasing him.

  “You don’t live far away, you live in the cave, with me and Burrum, and everyone,” he said, settling the discussion. “Look what Akawa has! I want some ants!”

  Akawa, her neck set at its usual proud angle, long arms moving gracefully, was prodding a huge, reddish ant mound with a stick. Dozens of large, shiny red ants rushed out to repair the damage to their home. Akawa selected one to eat.

  Licking his lips, Lishum hunkered down next to her and captured an ant. Holding it up in the air between thumb and forefinger, he sang out in his high voice, “Little brother ant, I will eat you now. May your Ta be happy in Place-of-Night-Sun. Do not be angry with me, I am hungry.” With that he bit off the ant’s abdomen, tossed away the rest and crunched happily. “Oh, little brother ant, you taste so good.” He reached for another.

  Burrum had also gone to the ant mound. “Meezzan, this is for you.” She held out an especially large red ant. Holding back laughter, the other young people watched Zan. Although she was no longer overcome with revulsion when someone ate a slug, Zan continued to refuse the offerings of beetles, ants, grubs, or worms. And everyone continued to be amused by her refusals. None of them could understand her distaste for such good food. Now she was about to refuse again, automatically, when something stopped her. I’m go
ing to eat that ant, she thought. A strange feeling took hold of her, a feeling all green and cool and lovely, as if her bare feet had grown from the soil, and her skin from the trees, as if she belonged to all of them and to the rain-wet soil and to the ants, too. She felt that she belonged in a way that made it right and good to eat the ant. Taking the insect from Burrum and bringing the struggling creature to her lips, she said, “Little brother ant may your Ta be happy in Place-of-Night-Sun.” She bit off the abdomen and chewed bravely.

  “Meezzan ate the ant, Meezzan ate the ant,” Lishum chanted, dancing in delight around her. Ai’ma joined in with her deep voice. “Say it’s good, say that little brother ant tastes good.”

  Chewing hard, Zan swallowed. The ant tasted slightly acid and watery, like an unripe blackberry. Hunkering down near the mound, she picked up another one and handed it to Sonte, who had left the tree. “These ants are very good,” she said, as if she ate them every day. “Eat more, there are many.” Then, impishly, she added what Sonte had told her so often, “You must thank them, you know, or else they will turn to poison in your belly!” She selected another ant for Burrum. She felt almost foolishly delighted with herself.

  “Give me an ant Meezzan.” Lishum leaned on her shoulder. “I want you to give me one,” he said jealously.

  After Lishum, she saw Em’Fadi watching her with big, begging eyes, so Zan picked out an ant for her. Then it became a playful, teasing ceremony in which everyone—the inseparable brothers, Goah and Hakku, Hiffaru, Foomia—each had to have an ant selected by Meezzan. They were so absorbed that no one noticed Diwera passing a little distance away. The Wai Wai had heard the laughter and had seen the group by the ant mound. At once she picked out Akawa, part of the group, yet slightly separate, as always. Aii, that Akawa. Diwera’s thoughts took a familiar path. The girl would neither swim in the water, nor fly in the air. She would take an interest neither in having a man, nor in learning all that her mother could teach her.

  Hidden from the young people, Diwera saw how they hovered around Meezzan, like bees around a flower.

  For many moons now she had been watching Meezzan. The girl had come to the People after Moon of Berries. She had been with them in Llachi Moon, Moon of Bear People, Beaver Moon, Grass Moon, Moon of the Long Night, Egg Moon, Bird Flight Moon, Fire Moon, and Rain Moon. Now it was Moon of Tears. So many moons! And still, whenever she saw the girl, Diwera felt as if there were thorns in her belly. It was the powers of the girl. The powers that Meezzan gave to no one, no matter how politely, how sweetly they phrased their desire. Nii’uff, for instance, was much in Diwera’s thoughts. Her son, Hiffaru, often spoke of it. It was sharper than the sharpest cutting stone. It could do many things. It chopped, tunk! tunk! tunk! and a root or tuber was cut into bits. Thrown into the air, Nii’uff turned, tumbled, and dived straight into the earth like a diver from a high rock straight into the river. Taken from the earth, it hid away its bright sharpness in its shell, like a turtle withdrawing. In the shell it could no longer cut and dive, but Meezzan had only to give a small tug and out came its tongue, sharp, bright like sun on water.

  Besides Nii’uff, Meezzan had other powers, none ever known before to Diwera. These powers the girl often took out and spoke to. Kee, yellow like the yolk of birds’ eggs, big-headed, one-legged; Baa’tun, small like a pebble, white as a flower, with tiny blank eyes; and Saff’tee Pan, whose mouth when closed was quiet, but which with a press of the thumb sprang open to show a pointed tongue that could draw a drop of blood.

  Often Diwera had come upon Meezzan arranging these things on her outstretched leg. At such times Diwera felt fear and anger that she did not know which spirits Meezzan called with her powers. She had seen the young people clustering about her, staring, asking respectfully to touch Kee or Baa’tun. But Meezzan kept these powers to herself, as if she would lose something by giving them away. Could such a thing be? It was contrary to everything Diwera knew to be true. If she, for instance, gave away a bracelet, a shell, or herbs for sickness, then and only then did they gain their power for good. What one kept for oneself was of little value and brought the keeper no happiness. To give was to enhance one’s strength, one’s goodness, one’s esteem in the eyes of others. If she, Diwera, kept her knowledge and her songs, her chants and cures to herself, then she would not be fit to be Wai Wai. She would be laughed at and scorned. But this Meezzan was not scorned. Her strangeness, her differentness fascinated the young people.

  Diwera moved on past the ant mound. Why are you afraid of that girl? she scolded herself. That girl is not a snake. She rubbed her belly, calming herself. This Meezzan is only a girl! Am I, the Wai Wai, afraid of a girl?

  Later that day, Diwera again saw Meezzan arranging her powers on her leg. Saff ’tee Pan, Kee, Baa’tun, and Nii’uff. Diwera’s stomach jerked. She moved closer, yet closer, and for the first time saw that on the big head of Kee there were many tiny marks, like fresh bird tracks, going this way and that way. Fearless, yet somehow deeply afraid, Diwera stared at those marks.

  That night she threw many pieces of rotting Lasba wood into her fire, seeking in the green flames the knowledge of Meezzan’s powers. Were they powers for good, or powers that would hurt the People? She stared into the flames till tears ran from her eyes, and there she saw many terrible things, but none of them could she understand. She saw towering shapes, roaring flames, things flying through the air like birds, but not birds. She saw people running like ants, here and there, crashing into one another and then running on again. She saw enormous screeching snakes ramming through the womb of Grandmother Earth. And in her head she heard unearthly, inhuman screams.

  When the Lasba wood was nothing but ashes, she sat for a long time, gripping her shoulders, her hands cold as the hands of the dead. What did it mean? She had no answers. She knew only that it had to do with Meezzan, and that she must go on watching the girl. For she was the Wai Wai of the People and, like a mother with her children, she must let no harm come to those in her care. In her belly, where everything was told finally, she feared Meezzan, feared what she might yet bring to the People.

  Chapter 21

  The setting sun flung long purple shadows across the land; moisture rose from the trees, and birds called in the cooling air. The sound of voices raised in argument brought a crowd to N’ati’s cave where Farwe and N’ati were hurling accusations back and forth. No one knew exactly what had caused the outburst. N’ati said she was insulted because Farwe had not come to help her sister Yano at the birth of her child. “Do you know how you have hurt me?” N’ati cried, making a fist and pounding her belly. “You have hurt me here! Your mother’s mother was my father’s mother’s sister, and you were not there.”

  Farwe did not deny this, but asked why N’ati brought this matter up now, long after the happy birth of the child. Perhaps, she said, N’ati was really upset about something else? Perhaps N’ati was unhappy about the good fortune Farwe’s family enjoyed? Farwe’s daughter, Burrum, would someday have Hiffaru as her man, while N’ati’s son, Sonte, would have to wait for his woman. Moreover, her daughter, Burrum, had found that girl Meezzan who lived with them in their cave with those things she had—Baa’tun with his clever eyes, Nii’uff that cut better than any stone, Kee, and Saff ’tee Pan. Perhaps, Farwe said, striving to keep her voice pleasant and her face from crumbling into an angry mask, perhaps N’ati did not like all these good things happening to Farwe’s family? Perhaps it made N’ati’s son ache in his belly to know that Farwe’s family—

  “My son’s belly is good,” N’ati interrupted loudly. “Who says anything about my son’s belly?” The cords of her neck stood out like vines. “Who says this thing about my son? Oh, you have made me so angry saying this thing about my son.” She turned to the people around her. “Did you hear this? Did you hear this woman say these things about my son, Sonte? Do you see why I am so angry?”

  There were murmurs of sympathy and dissent from all sides. Some agreed with N’ati, some with Farwe. Farwe’s man,
Raaniu, tried to put in a few calming words, but this only upset N’ati even more. “I have no man to speak for me,” she cried, and began to lament the way she lived, without a man to warm her, and rub her back, and bring her food when she was sick. She had to do everything for herself! “Oh, I am so angry, I am so upset,” she cried, pulling at her hair. “You, Farwe, you have made me feel this way. Do you think that’s good?”

  Distressed, Farwe looked about her for support. She was always so pleasant. Why was N’ati shouting at her, why couldn’t N’ati be pleasant the way Farwe was? Her ears were aching from N’ati’s shouts and she wished she were down at her own cave, in front of her fire, talking lazily, singing a little, with her family around her, and everything so pleasant. She couldn’t remember what she had said to make N’ati so angry, or why she was here at N’ati’s cave.

  Of course, Farwe would have been astonished if someone had reminded her that she had come to boast of Meezzan and to make herself feel good by subtly reminding N’ati that Hiffaru would someday be her new-son.

  “What a loud voice you have, N’ati,” she said, and once again, uneasily, saw that she had only made N’ati angrier. She scratched her arms and said quite piteously, “I think I touched that Tetee plant today. You know that plant with the little round burrs, it can make one itch all night long.” She scratched her arms again. “I want to go down to my cave. My arms are hot like fire.”

  “Oh, you run away now! You run away from me,” N’ati said scornfully. “You come here like that big wasp to sting me, and then you fly away. Paa!” She spit out of the side of her mouth at Farwe’s feet.