by Meredith
“When we’re happy where we are, you ask us to start all over in a village of strangers! Why? So you can be important? You want to be a hero like your grandfather?”
Shonan gave her a sharp glance. Smart remarks about the hero Zeya were out of order.
Salya stopped as if she was out of breath, but she always had enough breath to start a fire. She could have gone on about all their neighbors, the babbling and shouting of the children they knew, the roughhousing of the boys, and her girlfriends and their chance to smile slyly and gossip about boys their own age.
Shonan and Aku knew Salya’s barbs well, and in their way they were friendly. She liked to stir the pot. But she didn’t often run the wolf of her anger this long.
“Kumu,” said Shonan, “would you run ahead and speak to Yim and make sure things are all right? Wait for us there.”
It was a gesture accepting Kumu as part of the party. The clown trotted off.
“You done?” said Shonan to Salya, knowing he shouldn’t ask.
Those words pricked her into rambling on. No one listened.
Aku, especially, had other things on his mind. His father had indicated that things would work out with Salya and Kumu.
Aku was silent because his mind was far away. He was the twin who was glad to go to Amaso. Salya thought he wanted to get away from a gang of teenage boys who didn’t like him. They were preoccupied with being manly and muscular, devoted to the ball game and to weapons and learning to fight. They thought Aku was strange because he was built like willow limbs lashed together at the joints, and had about the same strength. Worse, there were the owl feathers in his hair—when people saw owls they thought of death. “You hate this village,” Salya had said yesterday, “but I love it.”
She was wrong about him. He was elated to move to the sea. He dreamed of smells, embraces, and caresses at the eastern village nestled against the great waters. Though he had told no one, his lover waited there.
That night Shonan slipped out of camp and went hunting for fresh meat. On a long trip, carrying parched corn and ground seeds and dried flesh, people longed for fresh meat. Shonan would get a deer—he always did—and then say the prayers for forgiveness that kept the deer people from getting angry. When he brought it back, he would give most of the meat to other families, saving only a few scraps for his own. That was the way of a good leader.
“Poor Father,” Salya said, “does he think he’s fooling us?”
“He’s a good man,” said Kumu.
“The last six years have been hard,” said Aku.
“Hard for him,” said Salya, “and he makes it worse for himself.”
“He’s a good man,” Kumu repeated.
Salya squeezed his hand.
Everyone had seen what Shonan had done since their mother died. He led war parties at every season, even when the snows should have kept every sensible man at home by his fire. He beat all their enemies back from the edges of Galayi territory. He claimed new hunting grounds for the Galayi. He won every battle and lost none. Sometimes, as soon as men of other tribes merely heard the Galayi war cry—Woh-WHO-O-O-ey! Woh-WHO-O-O-ey! AI-AI-AI-AI!—they ran for their lives.
Now he was going to be the war leader and surely the most influential man of Amaso, turned into a new Galayi village. The Amaso people seemed likable enough, though they were touched by the spirit of beggars. They needed Shonan.
Which brought everyone to this day. Salya was playful with her lover and twin, but with her father it was different. Kumu stayed silly. And Aku … He liked walking alongside his father and learning things. He like ambling along with Salya and Kumu, because they were all laughter, as long as Shonan wasn’t close by. But half the time he avoided his father and sister and dreamt his dreams. Shonan was carrying his ambitions, which crackled like lightning. Salya was preoccupied with the man she wanted.
In the half-blue, half-gray of the evening he watched Salya and Kumu shoulder their elk robes and head off into the twilight. Salya glanced back furtively.
Aku studied his father. He’d known all along. “You wanted to build a bridge by giving Salya to the chief’s son,” he said.
“Grandson,” Shonan corrected.
Silence. “He’s good-looking. I thought he was a catch, but …” Shonan looked in the direction of the lovers, who had disappeared.
“I have an idea,” said Aku. He hesitated. “Let me be the bridge. My … She’s the daughter of the seer, Oghi. Her name is Iona. She’s …” He made a point of talking about things other than her smells and caresses, and emphasizing that she was the daughter of the second chief.
When Aku finished, Shonan said, “All right. You want her.”
Aku stopped himself from saying “Wildly” and only said, “Yes.”
“She wants you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m happy for the two of you. Let’s think about it,” said his father. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”
In the middle of the third night the waters flooded camp. “Put it higher, in the crotch of the tree,” someone yelled. People were trying to protect their dried food. When it got soaked, it was useless. The campground clattered with curses at the river. Clothes were wet, bedding was wet, firewood was wet—the rest of the night would be miserable, and a couple of days would be lost.
Shonan glanced up at the stars and saw that dawn wasn’t far away. A little good luck to take the edge off a lot of bad luck. It happened sometimes. A hard rain would pound the mountains several ridges over, where you couldn’t see the clouds. The river would rise in its narrow canyon, and the few wide camping spots would get flooded.
A hand touched his elbow. Salya. “I’m sorry, Father, it’s my fault.”
True enough. If Salya hadn’t pulled her trick, if they’d started on time, they would be in a fine campground downstream, where the mountains opened into foothills, and the riverbed was wide enough to stand some flooding.
Shonan said to his daughter, “Just help take care of things.”
In the early morning light the men scrounged up enough tinder to get fires started. People stripped out of some clothes—nudity was no issue among the Galayi—and got into others. They ate the mushy corn which had once been parched, because it wouldn’t last anyway. The grass seed they’d ground into flour they threw away. They laid their soggy meat strips across branches—in a couple of days the meat would dry out fine, unless it rained again.
Spirits were as soggy as the ground, emotions muddy. Salya made tea, and Shonan’s little family gathered around to warm up from inside. Aku stuffed his belly with corn mush. Kumu munched idly, looking distracted, and then addressed Shonan.
“War Chief, let me run back to Tusca and get us food.”
Salya caught her breath. Clearly, she hadn’t been warned.
As he spoke, the early sun caught Kumu’s twisted tooth and he looked silly. But Aku knew this clown was serious. He had watched Kumu play the ball game. He was a natural athlete. More important, he played like a demon of determination.
Shonan looked at the man who wanted to marry his daughter. Kumu had a good idea. The party could walk slowly, underfed, to the Equani village and ask for food. Any Galayi village would help out. But Shonan didn’t want to come into Equani as a beggar. He wanted this journey to be a triumphal march, a procession led by a strong leader to benefit the nation. And Kumu wanted to be the hero of the moment.
“I can be up there tomorrow before the sun sets, back here by the end of the next day.”
That was a stretch—the first half of the journey was uphill, and on the return trip he’d have a load. Still, Kumu might do it. “I will send six other young men along,” said Shonan. “You will lead.”
Kumu resisted smiling.
“But this is a trade.”
Both Salya and Kumu frowned.
“You go home.” That word struck Aku as odd. “Tell people what happened. They’ll see to it that you get food. Then, when the party returns, six men come back and
you stay in Tusca.”
“Father!” snapped Salya.
Shonan held up a placating hand.
“If you will grant me this favor, I will give permission for the two of you to be married at the Harvest Ceremony.”
Salya still looked mad, but Kumu’s eyes lit up. The three great annual ceremonies, the Planting Moon, the Harvest Dance, and Sun-Low Dance, those were the traditional occasions for weddings, with all the Galayi people there to celebrate.
Before Salya could object again, Shonan said, “Aku and I have a surprise for you.”
Aku told his twin sister and Kumu about his lover, Iona, daughter of Oghi, seer of the Amaso people. “When I saw her the first time at the Planting Ceremony,” Aku said, “we …” Salya put her hand on her brother’s and squeezed it.
Shonan said to Salya, “I had intended to give you to the grandson of the chief. But I am willing, instead, to give Aku to Iona, the daughter of the seer.”
Salya covered her face with her hands.
Shonan turned to his son. “But you can’t be like these two, and spend every night together before the ceremony.”
Aku grinned and nodded. He thought, The afternoons will do fine.
“Let’s do it like this. We’ll have two marriages, twin brother and twin sister, at the Harvest Ceremony, marrying two good partners, Kumu and Iona.”
Salya peered at Kumu between her fingers.
Taking her gently by the shoulders, Kumu said, “Let’s do this,” he said.
Salya crumpled into his arms, which was daring in front of her father. “I guess so. I’ll miss you too much. I guess so.” She broke into big sobs.
Kumu held her until she stopped crying.
Shonan said, “You’re my daughter. I want you to be happy.”
Kumu’s eyes hinted of challenge. “War Chief, you mean this truly.”
Shonan smiled broadly. “Yes.”
Kumu lifted Salya’s face to his own. “We’ll join together with all the Galayi people singing for us.”
Her eyes and her voice said, “Yes.”
6
Chalu said, “Let me show you a good place to build your houses.”
Oghi signed the words, and Aku told them to his father.
The crowd was filtering out of the arbor, back to their huts or their temporary camp. Chalu asked Iona to stay behind while he led Shonan, Oghi, and Aku up a little hill to the north. He pivoted back, gestured to his people’s circle of huts, and said, “You see there’s no room in between.”
There wasn’t. The Amaso circle was tight, with the traditional opening to the east, and in this case to the sun rising from the sea. He turned to the north and spread his arms. “But this is a good spot.”
Shonan was on guard.
The place Chalu had picked out for the Galayi circle was fine, a wide space of dirt mostly free of trees and brush. It was bigger than the Amaso circle. The only disadvantage was being further from the river, making a long walk to get water.
Aku was surprised when his father said, “No. No, no, no.”
Chalu looked like his face had been slapped. “It’s a beautiful place,” he said. Oghi watched the war chief curiously.
“I want our peoples to live right together,” Shonan said. “We should mingle constantly. I want your people to have a chance to learn the Galayi language fast. We shouldn’t be two villages side by side. This is where we make a choice to be one people.”
“But there’s no room,” said Chalu.
“We will make room.” Shonan turned back to the Amaso circle. “I think we should build another circle just outside yours. The ground is not quite as even, but we’ll make do. And in a couple of years it will all solve itself.”
Chalu looked at Shonan, puzzled. “We’ll teach you to build bigger houses out of posts and limbs.”
Chalu said, “War Chief, we use these little huts because the weather is mild, and they’re warm enough.”
Oghi hesitated before he spoke. “Besides, sometimes a big storm comes in from the ocean and blows our homes to little pieces. If we build bigger ones, it will just be more work to rebuild them.”
“We’re going to have big families and lots of people,” Shonan said. “We’ll need bigger houses. If there are storms, we’ll just build them stouter.”
Aku thought of dragging posts from the stands of timber several miles back. He also thought of his father’s will.
Apparently, Chalu felt that will, too. “All right,” he said, “War Chief.”
Aku thought, My father will be principal chief soon.
A hard time started for Shonan’s group. He drove them to get their brush huts built in a couple of days. The huts were easy. What was hard was learning when the river was sweet and when it was salt, according to the tide. When people forgot to get water at the right time, they went thirsty.
But the days were sweet for Aku and Iona.
Iona looked at Aku’s sleeping face. He was worn out from loving her.
She put a hand on his cheek. She teased a wisp of his black hair with her little finger. She loved Aku. It was simple, it was powerful, but mostly it was enormous, bigger in every dimension than she’d ever imagined such a feeling could be.
Late this afternoon when they slipped to this sandy pocket behind a pine tree, which they did every chance they got, they lay down side by side and faced each other. Before touching her in the way that led to loving, he spoke to her from his heart. It was a small ritual they had, trading whatever words came tumbling out at that moment, even though they spoke different languages. She listened to his voice as she would to soft soughings of the wind, because she knew his intent without knowing what all his words meant. She felt like she understood the tones and shapes of his utterance.
It was awkward, and sometimes funny, not being able to talk to each other in a clear way. They could communicate about practical things through the sign language shared by the tribes. Is this your sister or your aunt? The roasted chestnuts are over there. Why does the river look deeper today than it did yesterday? With the sign language and gestures, they could fumble through speaking about such things. They also taught each other short phrases. Sometimes they tossed words into the air and shrugged. After being together for one moon and a few days, they understood sentences about half the time. All they really needed was to touch, and kiss, and embrace, and touch more intimately.
After he finished talking, their ritual was that she should take her turn speaking words he didn’t understand. But she hadn’t, not this time. The moon was rising out over the sea that she knew and he did not. She felt like the white globe was floating up into her throat, and no mere words could squeeze past it. She tried to say something and only felt a terrific pressure in her chest. She pulled him on top of her and urged him with her legs and her belly.
Iona and Aku rolled onto their sides, still clasped together but spent. She looked at the last of the day’s sunlight on his face, and the glow it gave his brown eyes.
Now was the time. She knew. She was content with the reality. At the Planting Moon Ceremony she and Aku had made love for the first time. Now they had been promised that they would be married during the Harvest Moon Ceremony. They hated to wait two more moons, but that was the tradition. Among the Galayi and Amaso peoples, marriages were agreed on as much by families as the couple, because it was not just a meshing of two people, but of generations of two families.
Now was the time to tell him. Still she hesitated. Now. “Aku, I have your child inside me.”
There, simple words, singing in the air between them.
He looked deep into her eyes and saw play.
Quickly, he rolled her to his other side. The last of the sun was in her eyes. She was warmth, endless warmth. And honesty. And a hint of laughter.
He whooped. He whooped louder. The shushing of the waters, here where the river flowed into the sea, tossed his words away, made them no more than a gull’s cry.
He bellowed. “I love you!”
&n
bsp; And louder, longer, “I love you!”
In answer a bellow tapped at their ears.
At first they weren’t sure what it was. They looked at each other in question. They got up on their knees, crawled to the top of the low dune, and looked toward the village.
Oghi was running as fast as any man-turtle could run. He was also shouting something.
“What did he say?” asked Aku.
“Don’t know! Shhh!”
This time they both heard it.
“She’s gone!” Aku wasn’t sure what he heard. He wasn’t that confident in the Amaso language.
Oghi shouted again.
“She’s gone,” said Iona, her voice pulled tight by strain. She made the hand signs so Aku would be sure.
“Who’s gone?”
“Your sister Salya.”
“She’s gone?”
“Get dressed!” whispered Iona fiercely.
Aku stood up to get his breechcloth on. About sundown a gust of rain had driven them tighter into their robes and each others’ arms. Now a drop of cold water fell off the tip of a pine needle onto the part in his hair, right on the top center. He rubbed the cold spot with a stiff finger.
“Your shirt!” said Iona.
She was standing, smoothing her skirt down. Their clothes were made of deer hide.
Aku pulled the shirt over his head and double-checked his owl feathers to make sure they were tight. The Amaso people thought the feathers were daft. Owls were thought to be witches, and their night cries made people hurry inside. But the memory of his mother was enough for Aku.
