The Path to the Sun (The Fallen Shadows Trilogy)

by Kimberli Bindschatel

By midday, the sweltering sun became unbearable. Kiran pulled at his sweat-soaked clothes, flapping them against his skin, trying to cool himself. He was thirsty and footsore. Thankfully, they came upon a small pond and the clan stopped, dropping their loads to fill their skins. They were quickly on their way again and Kiran fell in line next to Jandon who had been lagging behind.

  “How’s your ankle?” Kiran asked.

  “It hurts. But I’m fine. I’m tired of being hot, I know that.”

  Kiran glanced over his shoulder.

  Jandon followed his line of sight. “What are you looking for?”

  He could trust Jandon and the more eyes watching, the better. He eased next to him and whispered in his ear. “The witch. I’m keeping my eye on her.”

  “A witch!” Jandon jumped as if he’d been bitten, swiveling around in a full circle, his eyes darting about.

  “Shhh! I don’t know what powers she has and I don’t want to take any chances. We can’t let her know that we suspect.”

  “How do you know there’s a witch?”

  “Wait,” Kiran grabbed him by the arm, swinging him around to face him. “You didn’t suspect?” Jandon scrunched his eyebrows together. “Well, that’s good. Then the others probably don’t either. Anyway, you remember, the woman who danced with Manu-amatu.”

  “Oh, yeah. Who could forget? What a body. And the way she danced.” He made a soft whistle. Then he turned to face Kiran, eyes wide, as if he just made the connection. “She’s a witch?”

  Kiran shushed him again, looking around to be sure no one heard. “Of course she’s a witch. What else could explain it? Manu-amatu jumped in the fire. And he didn’t have one burn. She cast a spell on him.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “You were there. Didn’t you see?”

  “Huh.” He scratched his chin. “I thought the magic came from the staff.”

  Kiran stopped dead and stared at Jandon, stunned. A magic staff? “I never thought of that.” He had made some assumptions; he had to admit. Maybe she wasn’t a witch after all. But he couldn’t remember everything that happened that night. And the lustful feelings. It must have been the spell of a witch. Wasn’t it? He looked sidelong again to be sure no one had heard and walked on in a storm of thought. A real magic staff?

  As the sun approached the horizon, a suitable place to camp was found. The Lendhi went to work right away, their routine so engrained it seemed to happen without effort or planning. Tents went up, supply baskets were arranged, and the fire sparked to life. The women dug a pit in the ground, which they lined with the stomach of an animal to make a cooking pot, and filled it with vegetables and water. They placed hot stones in the water until it boiled. Before long, the scent of stew wafted through the camp.

  Meanwhile, the Torans watched Haktu erect his tent. Curved poles were set in the dirt and lashed together, forming a dome-shaped frame. Several animal hides that had been stitched together were lifted with a pole and wrapped around the frame then pinned together with wooden skewers.

  When they rose to set up their own tent, Jandon struggled to his feet and winced in pain as he put his weight on one leg. Bria took him by the arm. “Jandon, show me your ankle.”

  Reluctantly, he lifted his pant leg to reveal a swollen ankle. Pus oozed from the gashes in his skin.

  “Oh, my! We need to take care of that. Why didn’t you say something?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not as bad as it looks, really.”

  “But we can’t risk it getting any worse!”

  Haktu took a close look at the wound.

  “I’m all right,” Jandon said, waving his hand in the air as if to shoo away the problem.

  Haktu ushered Jandon into his tent, insisting that he sit and rest. “Manu-amatu help,” Haktu said gruffly and left.

  Bria and Kiran sat with him, their eyes adjusting to the dark tent. Sunlight streamed down through the small opening at the peak of the roof, faintly lighting the interior.

  Moments later, Manu-amatu stepped through the flap door, his hands crossed, his head bowed. A young girl stood behind him, holding a leather bag and a bladder of water. Manu-amatu examined the wound, then sent the young girl on an errand.

  Manu-amatu selected items from a pouch he carried around his neck—pieces of bone, a white stone, several feathers, the tip of an antler—and deliberately placed them about the tent, chanting.

  The girl returned, a wooden container in hand. She opened the lid and gingerly pulled from it a long, slimy black bloodsucker. Kiran’s mouth dropped open and his stomach flipped. Jandon shrank back with a gasp and the color drained from his face. “Uh, I’m fine. Feeling better already. Thank you,” he stammered.

  The girl laid the wriggling worm on Jandon’s ankle. He went rigid, staring wide-eyed, following her every movement. When she reached into the container and withdrew a second writhing bloodsucker, Jandon drew in a quick breath, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped over on his side.

  Kiran watched with morbid curiosity as the girl applied several more worms to the purple, bleeding skin. While they enlarged, filling with blood, hot stones were brought from the communal fire and placed in a basket filled with water. From his leather bag, Manu-amatu took several dried leaves, dropped them in the basket, and stared into the brew, entranced, as they swirled about the bubbling water.

  Meanwhile, the girl mashed herbs and pulpy roots in a wooden bowl. Once the worms had fallen away, she scooped out the poultice in her bare hand and put it directly on the wound, spreading it across the skin. Then she covered the ankle with an animal skin and wrapped it with strips of reed, twisting them together to hold the poultice in place. She picked up the bloodsuckers, returned them to the container, and slipped from the tent.

  Manu-amatu dipped a wooden cup into the basket and lifted it to Jandon’s lips, gently waking him. After Jandon drank, Manu-amatu stared into the empty cup as if searching for something. “The spirits are strong,” he said and jumped up and stomped around the perimeter of the tent, beating the sides with a stick and shaking a rattle, chanting with fervor. Kiran sat stone still, startled by Manu-amatu’s outburst.

  Manu-amatu smiled with satisfaction. “The evil spirits have been cast out and harmony restored. Now he can rest,” he said and gathered his relics and left.

  Kiran remained where he sat, a phantom thought taunting him, lingering just beyond his grasp. He plucked a leaf from Manu-amatu’s brew, examined it, and put it to his nose. Immediately he recognized the familiar leaf, but tasted it to be sure. Tarweed. But how could that be? There was nothing special about tarweed. It was just a tea. Had Manu-amatu blessed it? Had he imbued it with special power with the chanting? But it was just tea. Wasn’t it?

  Kiran ran after Manu-amatu. He had to know.

  He caught up with the old man on the other side of camp. For a moment, Kiran stared, unsure how to ask. He’d be scolded for sure. But he had to know.

  “What troubles you?” the man asked. He took his time to set down his bag and lower himself to the ground.

  Kiran sat across from him. “The tea. Is it magic?”

  “A very rare, special herb. It is difficult to find.”

  Kiran cocked his head to the side. It was true, he realized. The plant was common in the hills near his home, but he hadn’t seen it here on the flatlands. But, still, tarweed had no special power. It was just a plant.

  As if he read Kiran’s thoughts, Manu-amatu said, “It is all part of the Great Mystery.”

  Great Mystery? “But you must know how it cures. Why that tea?”

  “It does not matter how or why. What matters is what is.”

  “So it’s not the tea?”

  Manu-amatu scratched his chin and his eyes turned soft. So much like Aldwyn. But maybe this man can really conjure magic. Kiran drew in a quick breath. “It’s you.” His eyes grew wide. “You have the power to banish the demons of the sick.” You are the witch!

  Manu-amatu raised his hand in defense and shook his head. “I have no such power. He
alth is a state of harmony. Sickness is disruption, an imbalance. Through my connection to the Spirit world, balance is restored.”

  Connection? “Spirit world? Like the other night, at the fire? Haktu told me you traveled. By the staff. Is that it? Is the power in the staff?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Is it magic?”

  “Ah, you are a seeker. You want to learn to walk with the Spirits?”

  “Walk with the Spirits?”

  “What are you seeking?”

  “Well, we seek the Great Father. The Voice of the Father. We’re traveling there.”

  “I see,” he said, nodding. “Why must you travel? Your Elders do not commune with your Spirit, the Great Father?”

  “Oh, yes. The Elders communicate with the Great Father through prayer, in the Tongue of the Father.”

  “And the Great Father, He answers in the same tongue? The Elders translate for you?”

  “Well, not exactly. I mean…you don’t hear His voice. But they do, somehow.”

  Manu-amatu raised one eyebrow. “You are not sure?”

  “Well, yes, I am. I guess. It is just that we do not witness it. It is a sacred act, to receive the blessings of the Great Father. But we will. I will. That is where we are headed, to the Voice of the Father, so that we may receive his blessing directly. But the Voice of the Father dwells on the far side of the world. The Elders, they hear the… Well, we seek the Voice… It is difficult to explain.” He screwed up his face, searching for the words. He tried again. “The Great Father dwells in the Celestial Kingdom. We seek the wisdom that is direct from the Great Father. We seek the source. The Voice of the Father.”

  Kiran had to admit, he truly didn’t understand it himself. He sat back, frustrated. How could the Great Father dwell in the Celestial Kingdom and on the far side of the world? And if the Elders could speak to the Great Father, why did the pilgrims have to travel?

  He sat upright. Aldwyn had said something about being disconnected. Was that what they were sent to do? Restore the connection?

  An idea was forming in his mind and his nerves tingled with excitement. “You said you walk with the Spirits. Can you actually see the Spirits and talk with them? Do you hear their voices?”

  Manu-amatu sat back and eyed Kiran up and down. “From the staff comes an opening, but you must then walk through the mist to the Spirit realm.”

  Kiran tried to remain still, keeping a blank expression, while his mind reeled with possibility. “So its the magic staff that takes you there?”

  Manu-amatu nodded.

  “How? How does it work?”

  Maun-amatu smiled patiently. “It does not matter how or why. What matters is what is. It is all part of the Great Mystery. We do not question this.”

  Kiran nodded. What if the Lendhi did believe in the Great Father, only they called Him by a different name? And if Manu-amatu could travel by the staff…

  Chapter 12

  Falling into the routine of the Lendhi clan was easy for Kiran as they traveled the great meadow, following the path of the migrating beasts, drawing their life from the land. Whenever a beast was killed or other food was found, they lingered at camp for a few days, harvesting, collecting, filling their baskets with the bounty of nature, then went on their way again.

  In no time, Jandon was back to his normal stride, and he and Roh and Kiran ventured out with the hunters, stalking the beasts, antlered deer, and rodents that shared their grassy world. From Haktu, they learned to hunt by spear, how to follow animal tracks in the dirt, how to stalk their prey in stealth, always downwind, and to make the silent hand gestures the Lendhi used to communicate during the hunt. Haktu showed them how to wield a sling, swinging it about his head and flinging it accurately to stun or kill small game. When Kiran asked Haktu how he knew where to find the beasts, the master hunter smiled humbly and said the Spirits guided him, the signs were there for all to see.

  The women of the clan were as open and willing to share. They taught Kail and Bria to recognize fruit bearing bushes and how to collect their edible seeds, buds and flowers. With sharp, pointed sticks they would dig bulbs, tubers, and roots out of the ground. Kail and Bria learned to read the behavior of the plump grassland birds to locate their nests and their nutrition-rich eggs. Soon the girls had their own storage baskets filled with small apples, blue and red berries, wild legumes, edible ferns, and the hard grains the Lendhi ground and cooked into mush.

  Kail worked hard, and Kiran was glad to see her adjusting to life outside the village. She seemed to thrive here with new purpose, doing her part to learn the skills they needed. The color came back to her cheeks and he even caught her smiling.

  Deke spent his days with the children, preaching the Truth, so, he said, they may know the love of the Great Father and be delivered from the wicked ways of their parents. All the while he preached, the children listened with open-mouthed fascination to the flow of strange sounds. Kiran wondered how Deke couldn’t see; they didn’t understand one word.

  Some days, Kiran would join the women, an excuse to be with Bria. With patience, the women showed him how to collect the tall grasses, which ones were strongest, and how to weave sturdy baskets by placing the larger reeds at the bottom and making them waterproof with tightly woven patterns. When he attempted to make his own basket, the young girls bubbled with giggles.

  He had no idea that grass could be woven so tightly and made to hold water, yet these women did. They understood things about the world, things he’d never considered important before. It wasn’t just knowledge. The Lendhi seemed to live with the rhythms of nature, as a part of it, not separate from it. It was their way of life.

  Late one afternoon, Roh arrived in camp with a young deer slung over his shoulder and a manly grin on his face. He had made his own kill using the weapons of the Lendhi. The clan greeted him with smiles of congratulations. He dropped the carcass with a thud in front of the Toran tent.

  Haktu stood proudly next to Roh. “Must… What word? Pray. Honor animal Spirit.”

  Haktu dropped to his knees. Roh knelt next to him. Kiran did the same.

  Deke stood with his arms crossed, wearing a frown of disdain.

  “Well done, Roh,” said Bria, kneeling next to him. Kail hesitated, looking to Deke, then her eyes lingered over the camp. She dropped to the ground next to Bria.

  Deke leaned forward, his taut voice lowered, and said, “Pray? For an animal?”

  Bria spoke through clenched teeth. “You bow, or you don’t eat.”

  Manu-amatu appeared, smiling at Roh. “You have set free the Spirit to come into our hearts. We humbly beseech the breath of the fallen, come into our warm bodies that we may draw the breath of life.”

  With that the Lendhi clan cheered and went to work, helping Roh.

  Kiran thought he was beginning to understand. The Lendhi had a kinship with all creatures. Plants and animals were sacred, sentient beings, possessed of souls. They killed animals only when necessary, and then with reverence.

  But Manu-amatu himself was still a mystery. He was a paradox. Within the clan, he seemed the leader, the patriarch, the one everyone looked to for guidance, yet he did not lead in a traditional sense. He did not issue orders or set rules, nor did he profess any knowledge save that which was channeled through him from the Spirit world.

  Kiran followed him to his tent. “I’m told you can interpret dreams,” he said when the others were out of earshot. “Can you do it for me?”

  Manu-amatu nodded. Kiran told him of a dream he’d had over and over since the night he left the village. In it, he searched through many doors, went up a ladder that extended forever, then always, at the end, saw himself in a reflection, but his face was not his own. It was Aldwyn’s.

  When Kiran finished, Manu-amatu said, “This Aldwyn, you have much respect for him.”

  “Yes. He is the Eldest and I am his ward. I want to be an Elder someday, just like him.”

  “Ah. You seek his knowledge, understanding.”

  �
�Well, yes.”

  “So it is among the clan,” said Manu-amatu. “Wisdom is passed from father to son.”

  “Is that how you learned to speak so well?”

  Manu-amatu raised an eyebrow. “You mean to speak the language of trade? Yes, I have learned this language as well as the language of the clan.”

  “The language of the clan?” The soft mutterings, the hand gestures… They have their own language! All along, they had been trying to speak to him and he thought they were stupid. Guilt swelled in the bottom of his stomach. It was right before my eyes.

  Just as the Elders spoke both the common language and the Tongue of the Father, Manu-amatu, he realized now, spoke two languages as well.

  “Not all of the clan speak the language of trade, but as we travel, we often encounter others. If this is the tongue of your village, is it not a place of trade?”

  “It was,” Kiran nodded, remembering now what Aldwyn had said. “For salt. But the traders don’t come anymore.”

  “I see. And now you are seeking new trade? Is that why your Elders sent you?”

  “No. I told you. We seek forgiveness of the Great Father. We have sinned and brought about His wrath. The drought has threatened our crops, our lives. Our sheep wander barren, dusty pastures.”

  “Perhaps your spirit is angered by this cult of the seed, to think one can control the workings of the soil, the rain, to harness the animals that are meant to roam the land. You travel. But the voice you seek can be heard in the song of the bird, the twitter of the grasshopper, the murmuring of the river, and the sweet breathing of flowers. If only you would listen. We are part of the land, not rulers over it. For all things share the same breath—the beast, the tree, the man.”

  “So, are you saying that…” He thought of the squirrel on the mountain. “Are you saying that the Great Father lives among us? His spirit is everywhere?”

  Manu-amatu seemed pleased. “You are not like the others; you think for yourself. You have the gift of insight.”

  “It is a sin to question the Truth,” he said, his eyes downcast. “If Deke heard me…”