The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

  The drumming stopped and the crowd parted. All eyes turned, gazing into the darkness. Kiran craned his neck to see. A man emerged, dressed in the full pelt of an animal, its head atop his, its brown fur trailing down his back. Around his neck hung a ring of jumbled bones. His ears were pierced with the feathers of an eagle, his wrists decorated with leaves.

  The man had the same stature as Haktu, tall and commanding, but with the plump, softness of age and hair tinged with gray.

  The procession of dancers ushered him to the fire, their heads bowed in respect. He raised his hands high above his head and all were quiet. He waved his hands in the air, gesturing with wide, flowing movements and spoke unfamiliar words, low and solemn.

  “I think he is saying a prayer,” Bria whispered.

  The man sat down cross-legged next to the fire. Haktu stepped forward, holding his bowl out before him in offering, then motioned for the young Torans to approach. “Manu-amatu, these ones I tell you.”

  The amber light revealed a dark, wrinkled face and deep, knowing eyes that reminded Kiran of Aldwyn. “Welcome. I am told you need guidance to the river. And today, you lost one of your clan, out in the forest. We weep for you.”

  Kiran smiled. So this is Manu-amatu. Thank the Father! Someone intelligent! He looked to Haktu, wondering now why he spoke like a four-year-old.

  Jandon stepped forward. “He was swallowed by a Mawghul. It was awful.”

  “A Mawghul?” He turned to Haktu. “You are right, my brother. They are in need of guidance. I shall consult on this matter.”

  When every dancer took his turn, and all the requests were made, the drummer resumed, pounding out a steady rhythm—the thump-thump of a heartbeat, the pulse of life. The dancers came alive, circling the old man, stomping to the rhythm, and with each third beat, chanting with a loud grunt. A second drum, this one higher in pitch, began a staccato rat-a-tat, sending waves of sound, breaking against the main beat. In a choreographed ritual, each dancer, in turn, faced Manu-amatu, held his bowl above his head, looking to the sky, then bowed and tossed the dried leaves on the fire. They rocked and twirled in synchronized movement, waving their arms in the air like birds in flight, their brightly colored clothing swaying in an undulating array of color.

  All the while, Manu-amatu sat, as if in a trance, watching the tendrils of smoke whisper through the night air.

  A third drum joined in syncopated beats, and, as if the rhythm brought her into being, a woman appeared out of the darkness, singing a hauntingly mournful melody. Wrapped in a flowing robe of black, she floated into their midst, her face encircled with a corona of flowers radiating outward like the rays of the sun. In one hand, she shook a rattle and with the other, she waved a short staff in the air. She circled the fire, then paused in front of Manu-amatu. In a flowing movement, she held the wooden staff pointed in his face, put her lips to one end, and blew. From the other end, a tiny white cloud puffed into his face. Manu-amatu did not blink. He stared into the flames with a dreamy, unfocused look, as though he were seeing into another world. His eyes became bleary and after a few moments his lips went slack, saliva ran from his mouth, and he slumped forward, mucus dripping from his nose. The woman lifted his head and his eyes rolled back to reveal ghoulish white sockets.

  Bria gasped. Kiran glanced around the clan. No one seemed concerned as they swayed to the beat of the drums.

  The enchantress reached behind Manu-amatu’s back and flipped a grotesque mask over his face. It was the elongated, abstract face of a beast, carved of wood, with large, black holes for eyes. The horns stood tall atop his head, shiny black, glistening in the firelight. The men of the clan began to chant. The woman continued her sorrowful lament, spinning in slow, sensuous circles.

  The volume of the low drum increased, pounding like thunder, the rumble so low the ground vibrated beneath their feet—ba-boom, ba-boom.

  The rhythm increased in tempo, reverberating through the night. Kiran breathed in the sweet smell of smoke and let the waves of sound sweep over him. Faster and faster, the drums pulsed into a fever pitch. The beat pulsed through his veins, his heart pumping in unison. Ba-boom, thump-thump, ba-boom, thump-thump.

  All at once, the drumming stopped and he was drowning in silence, an excruciating emptiness. Kiran drew in his breath, overcome by a feeling of utter vulnerability, as if his soul could be drawn from his body by the phantom beat that pounded in his head. He felt a hand on his and turned to stare into a pair of shining green eyes. “Are you all right?” Bria asked.

  Kiran shook his head, looking about him. What just happened?

  As if lifted by the force of silence, in one swift movement, Manu-amatu rose to his feet and leaped into the fire, twirling and stomping, swinging his arms wildly in the air, the flames flaring up about him.

  Kiran shrank back in horror. “What’s happening? Is he possessed by a demon?”

  Bria shook her head.

  The other dancers shrieked and hollered, caught up now in a violent frenzy, whirling and spinning in erratic circles. Manu-amatu grabbed two burning sticks and raised them high above his head, knocking them together as he sprang from the fire, scattering sparks into the sky. He tilted his head back and screeched like an owl as embers rained down on his head. He spun, round and round, until finally the burning sticks shattered and he collapsed on the ground in a shower of orange coals crashing down around him.

  He thrashed about, his body wracked with violent convulsions—screaming, roaring, trembling, and twitching—that lasted for several minutes as he fought to cast out the demon. In a burst of strength, he leapt to his feet, spinning wildly until his body crumpled to the ground, the spell broken at last.

  About him, the clan started to hum a low, soothing intonation as they softly swayed from side to side until finally Manu-amatu rose to his feet and the humming stopped in a hush of anticipation. The clan stared with rapt attention, the air charged with expectation.

  Manu-amatu’s voice thundered through the silence with what seemed some kind of revelation. Cheers erupted from the clan and a different kind of music broke out. Drums and flutes, rattles and bells played as the clan members embraced and twirled in festive celebration.

  Kiran sat back, bewildered. Manu-amatu had not recited a Verse, had not spoken a word in the Tongue of the Father. Yet the clan acted as though they had been blessed. And how had he fought the demon? None of it made any sense.

  The adults of the clan danced with wild abandon, gyrating in a wild frenzy by the light of the fire, utterly shameless in their suggestive rhythms. Partners clung together, moving in tandem to the throbbing beat, their bodies touching, pulsing with a surge of passion. The music seemed to take possession of every mind, seducing them, tantalizing them, carrying them along into a realm where all inhibitions were taken by the wind. The musty scent of sweaty bodies permeated the thick, night air.

  The men and women moved together, sensuously entwined, led by the rhythm in a collective ecstasy. Kiran glanced at his companions, worried they could read his thoughts, but they seemed lost in their own, shifting uneasily. Kail sat wide-eyed and trembling, looking even more pale than usual. Jandon stared with his mouth gaping open as if he had been clubbed on the top of the head. Deke had a look of both disgust and indignation. Only Roh seemed to share Kiran’s intrigue, subtly swaying to the beat.

  The Elders would never condone this kind of dancing in the village, but he couldn’t resist the contagious rhythm of the drums, the intoxication of the dance. All his pent-up desires came to the surface. To be able to give himself up with abandon, to let go, was irresistible. He felt an overwhelming urge to take Bria in his arms and hold her, to sway to the rhythm, her body pressed against his. The familiar rush of heat came over him. Her face was flush pink and her hair lay wet against her forehead. Her eyes caught his and at once he realized he’d been staring at her, caressing her body with his eyes. He started to turn away, but her eyes held his, and for a moment he felt a surge of connection, as if her thoughts wer
e his, a mutual desire. In an instant the connection was gone. He was left breathless.

  He leapt to his feet and merged into the mass of sweaty bodies, swaying to the rhythm—ba-boom, thump-thump, ba-boom, thump-thump.

  Kiran awoke, disoriented, the warm sun on his face. Deke was whispering in his ear. “Look what you’ve done. In this demonic hive of hedonism and wickedness. I told you. I told you!”

  Kiran shoved him away, sat up, and looked around, trying to get his bearings. What happened last night? The entire night felt hazy. Why couldn’t he remember? It was as if someone had…as if someone had stolen his mind.

  He drew in his breath. A witch!

  Could it be? Witches had the power to take control of minds, make people act against their will. They never knew what happened.

  It all made sense now—the lewd behavior, the way the clan members had danced with wild abandon. The entire clan has been infected by her evil sorcery! She cast a spell over them all! He glanced around the clan, his eyes darting from face to face. The Lendhi were calmly going about their chores—chopping strips of meat, tending the fire, tanning the hides—as if nothing had happened. They don’t know there is a witch among them.

  The enchantress. It had to be her. The way she waved her staff. And the moon was full. How did I not see it last night? Surely she was the witch; Manu-amatu had jumped in the fire and emerged unscathed. How could that be but by the spell of one with maleficent power?

  Panic rose in his chest. We’ve got to get out of here! He looked at Bria and stopped cold, seized by a scant memory—her eyes, last night. She had looked concerned when he…Oh no! From the back of his mind came the unbearable truth: Witches can only seize the minds of the unfaithful.

  In horror, he looked back to the clan—half naked men living like wild animals with no temple, no Elders. Ignorant savages, unaware of the Truth. It was their lack of reverence for the Great Father that made them vulnerable to a witch. He was sure of it.

  He looked to each of his friends slumped on the grass beside him. Only I was bewitched! A rush of anguish flooded over him—he hadn’t recited the Verse last night. So much had distracted him from it. How could he have forgotten? But that wasn’t enough to make him vulnerable to a witch. His blood pumped hot in his ears.

  He had to get away from her. Now. But what would he tell the others? He couldn’t admit his weakness. Not without ridicule. Or worse, banishment.

  No. They’d already decided to stay with the Lendhi. He had argued for it.

  He had to deal with this on his own. He would have to be very careful. The slightest question or feeling of doubt and she’d seize his soul.

  Chapter 11

  Haktu appeared with a grin, offering a basket of grilled meat and roasted root vegetables to the Torans. “Bounty plenty. Spirits like you.”

  Kiran took a serving of meat. Trying to act casually, he asked, “Last night, the dancing and the celebration, what was that for?”

  Haktu cocked his head to the side, confused.

  Kiran slapped his hands on the ground as though he were playing the drums and swayed back and forth, imitating the dancing. He shrugged. “Why?”

  Haktu smiled in understanding and beamed with pride. “Hunt many beasts. Honor Spirits.”

  “Honor spirits? I don’t understand. Last night, Manu-amatu said he would consult. But how, with whom?”

  “Like bird, soar wind, to Spirit world.”

  Soar on the wind? That was absurd. Men couldn’t fly like a bird. And did he mean the holy realm of the Great Father, the abode of souls gathered in the afterlife? “Do you mean the Celestial Kingdom?”

  “Manu-amatu messenger,” he said as though telling a child who hadn’t been listening.

  “The messenger?”

  “By staff, he go.” Haktu raised his eyebrows. “You have holy man, no?”

  “Well, we have Elders. But they don’t fly.” He gestured toward the sky, raising his hands like Aldwyn would. “They talk to the Father.”

  “Ah,” said Haktu, nodding as if he understood. “Why you travel, across land, to Spirit?”

  “Because we were told to,” growled Deke, butting in. “One does not question the Way.”

  Kiran blanched. He was sure Haktu meant no disrespect.

  “Ah,” said Haktu with a clipped, polite smile and turned away.

  Kiran frowned at Deke, but it didn’t matter. He was getting nowhere, learning nothing of the witch. He’d have to find another way.

  Despite their lack of reverence for the Great Father, the Lendhi were a happy, friendly people. With genuine warmth and kindness, they welcomed the Torans, giving them hides and poles to erect a tent. Roh and Kiran managed to get the main pole set in the ground and one hide stretched over part of the top before declaring it would suffice.

  There were chores for everyone; no one lazed about. Kiran watched with curiosity, helping where he could, all the while keeping watch for the witch.

  The clan used every part of the animals they killed and each needed to be preserved. Several women worked to tan the hides of the beasts, which were used for myriad purposes: the covering of their tents, clothing, blankets, foot coverings, food storage, drums. One woman, the oldest in the clan it seemed, with hair white as snow, teetered about on one bad leg as she worked to remove the hooves and horns for tools and cooking utensils. Nothing was wasted. Even the dogs did their share, licking the bones clean.

  Others of the clan, men and women alike, continued the work of preserving the meat of the beast, cutting it into strips to be hung and dried over the smoky fire which they continually tended to keep the flies away.

  As Kiran interacted with the clan members, he tried to communicate with them. Occasionally, they would speak a word, but most of their mumblings were soft and incoherent. If he paid close attention to their expressive hand gestures, he could understand the gist of their communication, and he tried to gesture back the same way. Before long, it seemed, they were actually communicating and he was proud of the way he could read their facial expressions and interpret their body language. He wondered how they could ever live this way though, with such difficulty just trying to talk to each other.

  On the third day, the westerly breeze turned cool, a welcome relief after months of hot, dry air. Kiran inhaled the sweet scent of autumn and felt his stress ease away. There had been no sign of the witch. She must have slipped away in the night. It was the calmest he felt since he had fled from the village, which seemed like ages ago now.

  This morning, he sat next to a woman who stirred the dried meat into melted fat to be rolled into balls that were sewn up tightly in bags made of intestines and stored in leather pouches for travel. She smiled as she worked, showing him how to mix it, what the texture should be. When she turned to look into his eyes, a chill of recognition surged down his spine and he inhaled sharply. The witch! He jumped up, dropping the spoon of hot fat. Don’t look in her eyes. Don’t look in her eyes!

  “You burn?”

  “No, I, ah…” What do I do? She’s the witch! He stumbled backward, turned, and fled.

  Running as fast as he could, he skirted the edge of the camp. When he reached his tent, he dove inside, scrambled to his knees, and recited the Verse, twice in a row, just to be sure.

  That afternoon, a hawk was spotted flying overhead. The bird circled the camp and headed west. Manu-amatu declared it a good omen for travel. It was time for the clan to move on. The next morning, at first light, faster than Kiran thought possible, the clan disassembled the camp.

  Avoiding the women so as not to run into the witch, he stayed with the men, observing their work. The tents were taken apart and reassembled as travois, the poles laid on the ground and lashed together into a V-shaped frame, hides stretched across and tied to the poles, the baskets of belongings piled atop and fastened in place. Each loaded travois was fixed with a shoulder harness so it could be dragged across the flatlands. Smaller travois were assembled and fitted for the dogs.

  K
iran marveled at the ingenuity of the device—simple, yet remarkably efficient. Deke, standing next to him, snorted. “They aren’t even smart enough to make a wheel.”

  “No, these are better,” he said. “Look how they glide over the stiff grasses and uneven ground where a wheel would get stuck. It is quite ingenious actually.”

  Deke huffed. “At least we’re finally moving on.”

  With the rising sun at their backs, the clan set out across the prairie, moving as one amorphous mass, leaving a path of trampled grasses as they went. Four men led the way, their spears at the ready. The children followed, flanked by those adults who dragged the travois burdened with their worldly possessions. Younger men brought up the rear, eyes scanning the horizon. The white-haired old woman lagged behind, hobbling along, dragging one leg. Occasionally, she would sit upon a travois built just for her, dragged by one of the young hunters.

  Kiran walked next to Bria. “I’m glad to finally be on our way, aren’t you?”

  She nodded without looking at him.

  “To the river.”

  She nodded.

  Without warning, the men at the lead halted. In a loud whoosh, a covey of grouse fluttered into the air. One young hunter was so startled he jumped back, tripped, and fell to the ground. The clan erupted in laughter and moved on.

  Bria picked up her pace, moving away from Kiran. He watched her go, wondering what he had done wrong.