Zan lay down on her bed of grass, then got up and reached into the niche in the wall for her little bark bag. The niche was empty. She put her hand into the crevice again, searching thoroughly. Nothing! She knelt down and felt on the floor, and found the bark bag almost at her feet. She knew, even before she reached in, that it was empty. She tied the bag to her waist and crawled around on the floor.
Who could have done it? Farwe? Burrum? Keyria? No, not the family. Outside, laughter splashed through the night. A needlepoint of pain and fury touched her spine. Only yesterday, they had been weeping, sobbing, grieving over Lishum. Now they could sing, laugh. Her mouth was dry. Too much had happened for her to comprehend. Her ribs began to ache, as if in delayed reaction to the battering they had taken in the river. For the first time since the beginning, she was truly afraid for her life.
Chapter 29
Late that afternoon, Diwera had come back to her cave. Mumbling chants, she knelt before the fire and threw in handfuls of secret herbs. The fire blazed with brilliant colors, giving off a strange, musky odor. Hiffaru was piercing polished dried nuts for a necklace, his thoughts anticipating Burrum’s admiration of it. He believed his mother was so absorbed that she was unaware of his presence. This was often the case. But, presently, she drew him to her, saying, “Listen to me, my son. The Shape of Meezzan is gone. This afternoon the rains did not come. The Season of Rains is over, and now bad things are finished for the People.”
“Where is Meezzan?” he said. Earlier he had gone to see Burrum and she had asked him if he had seen Meezzan.
His mother’s hands held him fiercely. “Hiffaru, my son. Do not ask anything. I tell you the Shape of Meezzan will not come again. Now her powers must be offered to Olima. My son, I may not touch those things. It is not for me to touch those powers.” Her brown eyes gazed at him, drawing him closer. How tenderly he loved his mother! She was the only one who did not flinch from his shattered face.
“I will help you, Mother,” he said. And later, when dusk had fallen, he went down the mountain. Many people were singing and talking outside Farwe’s cave, making Farwe and Raaniu laugh so that the grief they felt would not poison them like the bite of a snake. No one noticed as Hiffaru went into the cave, found the little bark bag, and emptied it into his hands. And no one noticed when he left.
Where the river ran swiftly, he climbed to the top of a high rock and, one by one, dropped Kee, Baa’tun, and Saff’tee Pan into the Water, each time calling, “Olima! Olima! Take this power far away from the People. Olima, do you hear your son calling you?”
He had only Nii’uff to drop into the water and was raising his hand when something stopped him, a feeling in his belly that confused him. He wanted to go on holding Nii’uff. To have it. Never before had he felt such a longing. His body went hot all over, and hottest of all was the hand that held Nii’uff. So many times he had seen Meezzan use Nii’uff, seen it cut, thunk! thunk! thunk! It was like a living thing when it twirled in the air and dived into the earth. He had seen Sun in Nii’uff as Sun was often in the water, dazzling the eyes, making little suns sparkle in the air. He had seen Nii’uff hide as Turtle hides. Yes, he had seen all these things, but he had never, like some others (like Sonte), sniffed about Meezzan, hoping she would give him Nii’uff. He was too proud! He had always had better things to do. Yet, all the time he had dreamed of Nii’uff.
Hiffaru leaned out over the water, knowing how Nii’uff would spin and plunge in its fall, but again his fingers refused to give it up. Throw Nii’uff into the river, my son. Give Nii’uff to Olima. Your mother, the Wai Wai, tells you to do this. Never before had he disobeyed his mother. Yet he took a step backward, away from the water, then another step. Then, again, he went forward and held out his hand, but at the last moment he retracted it and swiftly walked away, his belly clenching as if he were hungry. Yes, he was hungry! Hungry for Nii’uff. The knowledge of this hunger and of what he had just done shamed him deeply. He moaned as if in pain, but even as he did he was thinking of ways to conceal Nii’uff from the others.
It was dark when Hiffaru stopped again near Farwe’s cave. A half moon was slowly rising in the east, casting a glow over the scene before him. There were still great numbers of people about, but no one paid any special attention to Hiffaru. He was always on the edge of gatherings, rarely in the center. Glancing swiftly around, he saw Bahii and Em’Fadi, Goah, Mahu the Teller, Sonte, and Sonte’s aunt Yano with her baby in her arms. Perhaps his mother, too, was somewhere among them. Aiii! What would she say, what would she do if she found out that he had not given up Nii’uff and its powers to Olima?
Pushing aside these troublesome thoughts and opening Nii’uff, he laid the bright tongue flat against the flesh of his arm. Cool, cool as water, and like water it shone in the moonlight.
He pressed the point firmly against his arm, drawing blood as Nii’uff bit him. He pressed the point against his arm again and again, dizzy with wonder. Nii’uff took little bites and blood welled up in tiny spots along his arm. Nii’uff was his! He would never give it to anyone. His breath trembled at the thought. It would no longer matter that he was ugly. It would no longer matter that they whispered the Anouch’i had got him on his mother, that the heel of the Anouch’i had slipped, crumpling half his face like a leaf. No, none of that would matter because everyone would want what only he, Hiffaru, had.
In the joy of these thoughts, he forgot that he would have to conceal Nii’uff, and he nearly laughed out loud, imagining how people would say respectfully, Oh, Hiffaru has Nii’uff. How fine Nii’uff is! He would smile and bend his head, but he would not give Nii’uff to anyone. No, not anyone! Then he thought of Burrum, as he often did. Aiii, when she saw that Nii’uff was his and that everyone respected him, then at last she would forget about Sonte! Drawing his forefinger tenderly over the sharp tongue of Nii’uff, Hiffaru saw a sweet vision in his mind: Burrum leaning against him, as they admired Nii’uff together; and Sonte appearing and Burrum saying, Who is that boy who calls himself Sonte? I don’t remember him. He makes me tired. I wish he would go away. Yes! Yes! Burrum would forget Sonte and think only of him, Hiffaru. Again, slowly, as though he were caressing his mother’s face, Hiffaru drew his fingers along the blade of Nii’uff.
Kneeling by Farwe’s fire, feeding wood, Sonte peered into the pale darkness beyond, where a few minutes before he had seen Hiffaru. Something about the protective hump of Hiffaru’s shoulders had caught his attention. Sonte had always been more aware of Hiffaru than of anyone else, except Burrum. He knew how Hiffaru looked at Burrum, knew how Hiffaru looked at him. Whenever he thought of Hiffaru someday lying with Burrum, a cold, hard feeling gathered in the back of his head and in his belly, and he would push away his mother’s hands and speak to no one.
He had been glad to Quarrel with Hiffaru for his mother! In the way of the Quarrel he should not have felt anger, except as he felt his mother’s anger toward Farwe. He should not have derived pleasure from the Quarrel, except as it came from defending his mother. Yet the moment he had seen Hiffaru facing him with his one tiny, flat eye, like the eye of a snake, he had felt pleasure and rage quaking through him. He had spit out his insults as if they came straight from his belly. Sonte had been ashamed and had told no one, not his mother, not Burrum. Thus the shame had stayed with him, lying hard in his belly like a stone.
Now he stood up and slowly edged his way through the crowd toward Hiffaru. “Sonte, my son.” His mother took him by the arm. “Is your belly well, my son?” Lishum’s death had upset N’ati very much. All night she had had bad dreams and had awakened this morning crying that she had seen her man, Fusiawa, once again laid out on the platform waiting for Vulture in Cave-of-No-Name. Sonte and Yano had both been needed to calm his mother.
“I am well, Mother,” he said, patting her hand.
“Mahu will tell a story,” his mother said. “Come and listen, my son.”
“Soon, Mother.” Again he moved toward Hiffaru, close enough to see that Hiffaru hel
d in his hand something that gleamed like fire sparks. At once, Sonte knew what it was. Hiffaru has Nti’uff. A hot stream, like raw Pana in the throat, poured into his belly. Often, he had seen Hiffaru’s eyes on Nii’uff, and he had known that Hiffaru wanted Nii’uff as much as he himself wanted it. The wanting crept like poison from the belly, to the throat, to the brain. Yes, Sonte knew that poison feeling well—to want and not have. To ask and not get. Was it not this way with Burrum?
“Hiffaru,” he said. “Nii’uff is fine, is it not?”
Hiffaru’s head jerked up. “You speak foolish things.” He tried to hide Nii’uff. His small eye darted from Sonte toward the gathering around the fire. “I do not know what you mean.”
“No, you are the foolish one!” Sonte said. “My eyes tell me you have Nii’uff! I am surprised to see you with Nii’uff. I did not know Meezzan gave it to you.” Sonte spoke calmly, but the poison foamed like angry waters in his belly. “I would like to have it now.”
He held out his hand. When one asked for something, then, of course, one expected to receive it. Only Meezzan did not do this, for she was a daughter of Others. But Hiffaru did not give him Nii’uff.
“Listen, Sonte, my friend,” Hiffaru said. “You do not want Nii’uff. Paaa!” He spit to one side, as if to show that Nii’uff was a thing of no consequence.
Sonte scrabbled his toes in the dirt his arms crossed over his chest trying to appear uncaring. “It would make my belly happy to have Nii’uff. It would make my mother happy to see her son with such a fine thing!”
Hiffaru scowled. “Go away, Sonte. Do not ask me for Nii’uff. It is a bad thing! Do your ears hear what I am saying?”
“My ears are open. They hear you. Now let your ears listen to me!” Sonte’s voice rose so that people around the fire looked up. “You have called me friend,” Sonte went on loudly. “If I am your friend, then let me keep that bad thing for you.” Again he held out his hand. “Give me Nii’uff, Hiffaru, and I will give you something, of course. Tell me what you want.” He touched a necklace of tiny shells on his chest. “My mother, N’ati, made this necklace for me. Let me give it to you.” He began to remove it.
“Aiii! I do not want your necklace,” Hiffaru said sharply, walking away.
Sonte grabbed his arm. “What is this? What kind of man are you?” The poison churned in his belly and his brain. Was Hiffaru always to have everything he was denied? Hiffaru would have Burrum—then let Sonte have Nii’uff! “Give Nii’uff to me. You, of the ugly face, give it to me!”
Hiffaru was shaking. He had dreamed of the power Nii’uff would bestow on him, but truly he had wanted no one to know the shame of keeping it. Now Sonte had said everything in his loud voice for everyone to hear. Burrum, her mother, her father, and all people who knew him—all the People!—had heard Sonte say that Hiffaru had Nii’uff. They had all heard Sonte call him “ugly face.” Hiffaru raised the hand that held Nii’uff. Sonte’s perfect face mocked his eyes.
Hiffaru meant only to make Sonte leave him alone. He did not want to look at his face anymore. He did not want to hear his voice anymore. He only meant for Nii’uff to bite Sonte as it had bitten him (but perhaps a little harder). From the corner of his eye, he saw Burrum watching Sonte in a way she never watched Hiffaru. In that instant Nii’uff moved like a living thing in his hand and its shining sharp tongue darted into Sonte’s belly. Sonte made a queer sound. Hiffaru’s mouth dropped open; he pulled away Nii’uff, and Sonte fell against him, slipping slowly to his knees while blood from the hole in his belly smeared Hiffaru’s body.
Chapter 30
My son, my son, my son, my son,” N’ati sang dully. She sat on the ground with Sonte’s head in her lap, smoothing the hair away from his face. His eyes were rolled up into his head, showing only the whites. Blood and foam leaked from his mouth.
On her knees, Diwera bent over Sonte, packing the wound with handfuls of leaves and grass to stop the bleeding. All around was pandemonium. People staggered in every direction, clutching their hair, breaking into shrieks of terror. Never had one of the People struck a fatal blow against another.
“My son, my son, my son,” N’ati mourned, kissing Sonte’s face repeatedly. Burrum and Farwe clung to each other, weeping. Nii’uff lay on the ground, bloody, untouched. No one dared go near it, as no one went near Hiffaru, who crouched, trembling and rocking, his arms over his head.
As she finished doing what little she could for Sonte, Diwera looked up and saw before her the Shape of Meezzan, kneeling and crying, wringing its hands over Sonte’s body. Diwera’s eyes bulged in horror. Her limbs trembled. Had she not seen with her own eyes the Shape carried away by the river? Now it had come back! Were its powers limitless? Her belly jerked in terror. Beyond a doubt, she knew it was the Shape of Meezzan that had made her son keep Nii’uff. The Shape of Meezzan had driven Nii’uff, held in her son’s hand, into Sonte’s belly. The Shape of Meezzan had made that deep and terrible hole in Sonte’s flesh, through which his life was pouring out.
Staring at the fearful Shape, its mouth open and wailing as it bent over Sonte, Diwera knew that she must drive it away once and for all. She must destroy the Shape before it destroyed the People. She must turn the power of the Shape against itself. “Aiii,” she groaned as she forced herself to reach over and pick up the stained Nii’uff. Her hand shook and she gripped her wrist with the other hand for strength. Crying out in a hoarse voice, she flung Nii’uff at the Shape of Meezzan, calling upon it to depart from the People forever.
The Shape screamed and fell back. It screamed and screamed, and the screams were taken up by others. Cries echoed and re-echoed. Men and women ran senselessly about in panic and grief, colliding with one another, crying out their terror. A man banged his head against the cliff face. A woman chewed on her arm. The screaming and wailing grew in intensity. Diwera stood up, crying out her own anguish.
“Come! Stop! Mahu! Raaniu! Fosia! Listen to me. Listen. The Shape will not harm you anymore.” But the screaming only grew louder. Diwera’s voice could not pierce the clamor. People trampled through the fire; children wailed hysterically; at her feet N’ati chanted her grief over her stricken son. And Diwera knew despair.
Someone grabbed her arm. “Mother. Mother!” It was Akawa. “Mother, we must tell the Keeper to beat the Death Drum.”
“The Death Drum,” Diwera repeated. And, as though she were the daughter, Akawa the mother, she said almost pleadingly, “But that drum is beaten only for those who have died.” Sonte still lived, though the breath escaped his mouth only in shallow puffs.
Akawa’s hand tightened on Diwera’s arm. “They are all afraid. They are screaming and running around. Their minds have fled. We must stop them, Mother. The Anouch’i are among us! The People will come together for the Death Drum. They will stop and listen when they hear the Death Drum.”
Diwera stared at her daughter in confusion and triumph, shame and joy. She had thought Akawa shallow, vain, unfit to be Wai Wai! “All this is the doing of the Shape of Meezzan,” Diwera said, her hands stretching wide to indicate the hysterical people. Two women ran past, screaming, and a man with a child in his arms fell to the ground, writhing and choking. Diwera felt herself trembling again. “I have made the Shape die,” she said harshly. “I took its power into my hand, and I used it against itself!”
“Yes, Mother, yes,” Akawa said. “But tell me that I may call for the Death Drum!”
“Aiii.” Diwera bent her head. Grief bruised her. Grief for Sonte. Grief for Hiffaru. Grief for herself, who had had to raise her hand in anger and fury.
“Mother,” Akawa pleaded.
Diwera nodded. “Go, then. Go!” She watched Akawa hurry away. The girl would find Toufa, the Keeper of the Death Drum. Akawa was right. Now was a time to beat the drum. Soon, Sonte would die. But already something else was dead, something that had died when Hiffaru plunged Nii’uff into Sonte’s belly. Never again would the life of the People be the same.
“Olima, Olima,” Diwera cri
ed. Then the sound of the drum was heard, and Diwera knelt next to Sonte and joined Farwe in chanting her grief and sorrow to the solemn slow rhythm of death.
Running down the path, Zan, too, heard the hollow beat of the drum. Down the mountain she ran. The moon, like a huge, half-closed eye, seemed to follow her into the forest. She ran to the only refuge she knew—the meadow. Her feet took her unerringly through the high, damp grasses to the hollow tree, where she threw on her clothes and, like an animal seeking shelter from a storm, flung herself down next to her boulder, burrowing as close as she could to its familiar presence. She was too far away now to hear the drum, but it seemed to beat in her head, telling her that Sonte was dead. The blood sticky on his belly . . . his eyes gone into the back of his head. The knife . . . oh, the knife . . . he’s dead . . . it hurts to think . . . hurts . . . hurts . . . oh, help me, help me, helpmehelpmehelpme . . . please . . . please . . .
Her mind sank and drowned. Her heart beat like the drum. Her skin and bones, blood and flesh drew together like a beam of light, narrowed, intensified, concentrated, her total self no more than a terrible thrusting need to be removed from the pain and fear and grief. She felt nothing in the ordinary way, neither the ground beneath her, nor the stone against her back. The moon no longer shone for her. Her bones were cracking, her skin peeling like bark from a tree. She cried out, but no sound came. Burning streams of silver poured through her eyes. Then there was darkness and she was like a speck of dust flung through space and time forever . . .
Chapter 31
Zan’s teeth were anesthetized. Numb. That was the first thing she noticed. Then the noise. A jet plane moved through the darkening blue sky like a prehistoric fish, its shriek trailing behind like a barbed tail. Car horns barked. “Hey, Ed,” someone yelled, and all up and down the length of J Street and inside Mechanix Park, street lights popped on, one by one.
Saturday, the Twelfth of October Page 18
