Secret Sacrament

by Sherryl Jordan

  When the dancing was over and the drums and flutes put away, the people spoke a night blessing to one another and moved to their sleeping places. Before they retired each person took a small bowl of warm water and, by their own bed, stripped and washed all over. No one watched anyone else, and the ritual was unself-conscious and strangely private. Ashila brought Gabriel a bowl and two pieces of soft cloth. “Your sleeping place is by Tarkwan’s,” she said. “Is there anything else you’re needing before you sleep?”

  He hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

  She leaned across the bowl and kissed his lips. There was applause and whistling from across the house. Wiping the red paint from her mouth, and ignoring the jests, she went over to her own bed. It was several sleeping places along from his. Gabriel took the bowl over to the place beside Tarkwan’s and, as nonchalantly as he could manage it, removed all his clothes, and washed. The paint from his face turned the water the color of blood.

  Soon everyone was in bed. Across the firelit house a child sobbed, and a mother crooned to it. Elders talked, their voices hushed. There was the muffled grunting of a little pig as it was cuddled under the blankets. Unable to sleep, a girl sang to herself, very low, making shadows on the firelit wall with her hands. Tarkwan laughed at something Moondarri said, and they kissed and murmured lovingly together. Feet padded between the beds where the young people lay, and there was furtive giggling. Gabriel listened, watching the firelight glimmer on the thatch. He thought of Ashila across the room and yearned for her.

  After a while the clan was silent, except for the sounds of sleep. Gabriel tossed restlessly in the furs, a hundred fears gnawing at his peace. He got out of bed, wrapped his cloak about himself, and went up into the night. There were no stars now, and the air was heavy with the scent of impending rain. From behind the Shinali house came the bleating of sheep, safe in their sheltered fold. Above the farms and hills the western skies glowed red from the lamps and fires of Navora. Someone called softly to him, and Gabriel looked up and saw three watchmen sitting on the roof.

  “You’re coming to wake us up?” one of them joked, his voice low. “You’re thinking we sleep, haii?”

  “I’m thinking I wish I could,” replied Gabriel, and they chuckled.

  “The soldiers, how many?” a watchman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gabriel replied. “Not many, I think. They were only going to give your people a fright, not make war with them.”

  “We’ll be giving them fright,” they said.

  Rain began to fall, splattering softly on the thatch. The watchmen lifted the upturned boat over the smoke hole, then sat down again, dragging a flax mat over their heads and backs. “Go inside,” they told Gabriel. “They won’t come without our knowing.”

  Gabriel went down the steps into the house, and returned to his bed. He lay tensely on his back with his hands linked behind his head, listening to the drumming of the rain on the upturned boat. Someone else got up, wrapped a saffron-colored blanket about herself, and came and stood at the foot of his bed.

  “Are you fearing?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  She crept onto the matting that made a space between his bed and Tarkwan’s. Clutching her blanket about her, she moved up to lie beside him. He was motionless, gazing at her, his sapphire eyes unsure and hungering.

  “I’m coming here to wake up the braveness in you,” she said, in hushed tones.

  “If you stay here, you’ll wake up more than my braveness,” he replied, moving an arm about her neck. He kissed her forehead, his heart pounding, his whole being in turmoil.

  She leaned up on her elbow, and looked at him. She was relaxed, her eyes dancing though her face was serious. “Am I having the right man?” she asked, sliding one slender arm out of the blanket, and stroking his dark and unfamiliar hair.

  “I don’t know.” He grinned. “Who were you looking for?”

  “Are you Gabriel, from Navora?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m worrying you are not. You danced joy-wild tonight, like a Shinali. Are you being sure you’re Navoran?”

  “No.”

  “What are you, then?”

  He thought for a few seconds, and replied, “A Navali.”

  She laughed softly, bending her head over his chest, her hair cool and silken on his skin. Her hand brushed the leather bag about his neck, and she fingered it, curiously. “What’s being in here?”

  “Things precious to me.”

  “What?”

  “Guess.”

  Gently her fingers probed the leather. Suddenly she smiled. “I’m knowing. A mourning bracelet, and a dream-sign. And a piece of something hard. A bone. A Shinali bone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was giving it to you?”

  “I found it when I was seven years old.”

  “You were being a Navali long time since?”

  “No, only since tonight.”

  “You have nothing Navoran, precious?”

  “Just Myron’s sword. It’s a bit big to wear around my neck.”

  “You can fight with the sword?”

  “No. I can hardly raise it, it’s so heavy.”

  She laughed again and settled down with her head on his shoulder. The rain babbled and sighed more densely on the thatch, and thunder rolled over the grasslands.

  “Now that you’ve woken up my braveness and everything else, Shinali woman,” Gabriel said, “are you going back to your own bed?”

  “Are you wanting me to go?” she asked.

  A few seconds he hesitated. “No.”

  She slid under the furs with him, her blanket still about her. He turned on his side and faced her, moving the yellow cloth off her shoulders, off all of her. He held her close, feeling the full length of her body against his, skin to skin, and he moaned aloud with amazement and desire.

  “Hush,” she whispered, smiling, pressing her fingers over his lips. “You’ll be waking all the clan.”

  But he had forgotten the clan, forgotten everything but her; and he kissed her over and over again, on her neck and face and hair, until she was as lost as he was in their love. And the rain spilled, hissing, over the Shinali house, covering their cries of abandonment and awe and ecstasy.

  17

  KILLINGS AND HEALINGS

  GABRIEL STOOD BY the fire. In his hands was his crimson Citadel robe, rolled for burning. On his bed, beside Myron’s sword, was the packed bag, the purse hidden in a shirt at the end of it. The bag was fragrant with the smell of Shinali bread, left over from the clan’s breakfast and put into a soft flax basket for him. He had also been given strips of smoked fish, and one of Thandeka’s best blankets for when he slept in the open. All was ready for his journey. There remained only the burning of the Citadel robe, the last vestige of his identity as healer-priest; and the farewells.

  He glanced across the fire at the people he had healed. They lay in their sleeping places, silently watching him, their eyes beaming. It was peaceful here, the calmness contrasting with the anguish in his heart. Outside, the younger children were releasing the sheep to graze on the spring grass, and the bleating of the animals and shouts of the young shepherds were homely and cheerful. Gabriel could hear the voices of the women working in the garden, and the talk of the men as they sat in the sun and smoked their pipes. On the other side of the house, toward the mountains, the youths joked with one another as they scraped clean the hides of the deer they had killed yesterday.

  Ashila waited beside Gabriel, her eyes luminous and sad. “Don’t be burning that,” she whispered, touching the Citadel robe. “Let me have it.”

  “I have to burn it,” he replied. “If the sentries come here again looking for me and find it, they’ll know you sheltered me.”

  He held the garment out over the fire, and the golden threads on the hem shone in the shaft of light from the smoke hole above. At that moment there was an unearthly hush. The children stopped shouting, and th
e women ceased talking in the garden. The elders became silent, and the youths stopped joking. On the thatch above there was a rustling sound as the watchmen stood. Gabriel glanced at Ashila. Her eyes were wide with fear. Then the most terrible noise broke out: a piercing wail, trilling and high, like an alarm. Other cries added to it, and the clamor filled the house and plain, and echoed back from the mountains.

  “What is it?” Gabriel asked.

  Ashila could hardly hear him. “The soldiers!” she cried.

  At that moment a group of children came rushing into the house. They raced across to the people recovering, and leaped onto the beds with them. Men and women came running in, went to their sleeping places, picked up small bags, tied them to their belts, and raced out again. The men grabbed spears or stone axes from the alcove on the way. Someone bumped into Gabriel. The crimson robe flew from his hands onto the floor and was trampled by urgent feet. Distraught elders carrying babies came in and went and sat with the children and the sick. There were people everywhere, hurrying, their movements purposeful. Gabriel looked for Ashila again. She had collected whatever she had needed from her own sleeping place and was by the door selecting a spear. He rushed over to her.

  “You can’t fight!” he cried.

  “I fight excellent!” she replied fiercely. “The old warriors, they were showing us how, all through the cold time. All of us.”

  A group of youths came in. They seized axes and spears and hurried out. Tarkwan’s brother, Yeshi, stayed, going over to guard the sick ones and the children. Then it was only Gabriel and Ashila in the doorway.

  She stared at him, agony in her eyes. “Go,” she said, crying. “If they find you, they’ll be killing you. Hide in Ta-sarn-ee, and when it’s safe, when the soldiers have gone, go to your ship.” She kissed him, and pushed him toward his sword and bag. “Hurry! Run!”

  He swept up his bag and slipped the sword through his belt. “Run!” she cried, urging him up the steps. Outside, Gabriel glanced across the plain toward the farms. The soldiers had come down the new road across the hills and were crossing the Shinali ground in front of the farms. He could not see clearly how many there were, but they were only a small company, thirty soldiers perhaps, and at their rear were four wagons drawn by horses.

  Ashila pulled at Gabriel’s clothes, forcing him toward the river and the group of trees. He felt her hand pressed against his heart, her lips on his cheek, his mouth. “Go! Now!” she cried.

  He kissed her one last time, flung his bag over his shoulder, turned toward the sheltering trees, and ran.

  Behind him, Tarkwan went into the house and removed the treaty from its hiding place. When he went up onto the grasslands again, his people were gathered about their house as if nothing was amiss. Women were gardening again, and the young men were scraping hides. They all had slings tucked into their belts, and smooth river stones in their pouches. Other people stood or sat in groups, as if taking pleasure in the first day of the spring. Tarkwan walked among them, giving encouragement and instructions. Spears lay concealed in the grass; knives and axes were hidden in the thick sheepskin clothing. Only a few minutes had passed since the alarm had been given.

  In the house Yeshi waited, his right hand already swinging the leather sling with its lethal stone. Children began to whimper, and the elders hushed them. Through the ground ran a throb like a distant drum. It grew to a constant beat, insistent and heavy. The marching of feet.

  Outside, the women stopped working in the garden and stood up. Only old Domi worked on, chatting happily, and unaware. The youths left their hides stretched out on the ground and joined the rest of the people. Tarkwan stood before them all, straight-backed and undaunted. The soldiers marched on. The wagons rumbled closer, heavy with equipment for restoring Taroth Fort.

  The gardens lay directly in the line of the march. Nearer the soldiers came, marching in ordered lines, eyes straight ahead and faces expressionless. They wore bronze armor on the upper part of their bodies, with plumes on their helmets and shoulders. The plumes were snow white in the morning, and the sun shone on polished breastplates, and on daggers and swords. Across their shields pranced the blood-red horses of the Empire, proud and conquering.

  As the soldiers approached the garden, the women moved back. No one noticed that old Domi still crouched there among her precious cabbages, muttering and nodding. Even when the soldiers marched onto the garden, crushing the work of years, no one noticed her. Tarkwan was running beside the men at the front, waving the treaty. Shouting for their leader, he implored them to stop and talk. The soldiers marched on, inexorable and heedless. There was a startled cry; a scream, confused and angry, then full of pain. And then they saw Domi, her arms over her head, rolling helplessly among her ruined cabbages, soldiers’ boots in her hair and on her back and legs, until she was covered in soil and blood. Then she lay still, and the soldiers tramped, uncaring, over her body.

  Then Tarkwan raised his arms and gave a piercing call like the earlier warning wail. The next moment the air was full of the strange whirring of leather slings, and a hail of deadly stones shot into the soldiers’ ranks. Many were hit from behind, on their legs or the backs of their necks. The stones hit hard, sinking into flesh. The soldiers stumbled, many fell, and the orderly ranks broke. Not knowing what had hit them, they had no time to organize themselves. Drawing their swords, they whirled to face the Shinali, and the next volley of stones thudded into their faces and necks, breaking teeth and tearing into windpipes and eyes.

  The company, trained to fight in unison, became disarrayed, confused, and the Shinali took full advantage of that. When their spears broke on the bronze shields, they used their axes and knives. Behind the hand-to-hand fighters were Shinali with their slings, sending shower after shower of stones, each missile accurate and lethal. The army captain roared his commands, tried to regroup his men into a fighting force, but his orders were lost in the strange, high war cries of the Shinali, and there was only chaos.

  In the place called Ta-sarn-ee, Gabriel crouched in hiding, his arms covering his head. But he could still hear the soldiers shouting as they wielded their swords, and the high-pitched wails of the Shinali as they hurled their spears or stabbed deep with their knives. And always there were the screams as steel or stone sliced into flesh, and the agonized cries of the dying.

  After a while Gabriel heard a call in Navoran: “Retreat!” Then the terrifying Shinali war cry again, cut short as if Tarkwan forbade it. After that the only sounds were the rumble of the wagon wheels as they went away, and the moans of people in pain.

  Slowly, shaking all over, Gabriel got up, dragged himself down a track to the river, and was violently sick. He washed his face and hands, went back to the hiding place, and picked up his bag and sword from where he had thrown them. He staggered up onto the grasslands, and faced the mountains and freedom. Behind him an unearthly hush lay over the land. He dared not look; even with his eyes closed, he could see the dead and wounded, the unspeakable suffering. And another image, old and even more powerful: a Shinali woman, her body naked and broken, her hand outstretched, pleading, her eyes imploring him. Tortan qui, sharleema.

  By the Shinali house, Ashila stood gazing in disbelief at the horror about her. Dead and dying lay all around, Navoran soldiers and Shinali together. People lay in pools of their own blood, some crawled in agony, others lay groaning and pleading for help. The ground was scattered with Shinali slain, cut down as they fled, their weapons flung aside; or lying open-eyed, defiant, their slings and knives still clutched in their hands. Survivors bowed on the bloodstained earth beside them, lamenting. Others, wounded or deep in shock, roamed aimlessly. They seemed lost, trapped in a nightmare they could not comprehend.

  The sun, hardly higher now than when the strife began, glinted on abandoned weapons and discarded bronze shields with their red horses. Everywhere the grass was stained with scarlet. Beyond the battleground the soldiers retreated, leaning on the wagons or on each other. People had left their fa
rms and were running to help them.

  Ashila stumbled across the devastated earth, calling her mother’s name. She saw Tarkwan walking among the wounded, praying over his own people, but cutting the wounded soldiers’ throats. She turned away and went on searching, hardly able to see the faces for her tears. At last she found Thandeka, alive but with a deep cut to her right shoulder. Ashila knelt down, took her own blood-smeared knife from her belt, sliced a strip of cloth from Thandeka’s skirt, and bound her shoulder to stop the flow of blood.

  “I’m all right,” Thandeka whispered, pushing her away. “But I can’t be helping you. You have to heal them. On your own.”

  Ashila stood up. Numb and despairing, she walked among the wounded, binding on makeshift tourniquets to stop the most severe bleeding. By a dying youth she crouched down, trying vainly to block the outpouring of blood from his chest. While she strove to save him, a wail louder than all the rest pierced the morning. It was more a scream than a lament, a passionate cry of intolerable sorrow. She looked across the grasslands and saw Tarkwan kneeling, Moondarri dead in his arms. When Ashila glanced down at the wounded youth again, he too was dead, his open eyes fixed on her face. She bent her head, her reddened hands upturned on her lap, and wept. Tortan qui, she prayed. Help me. Give me strength.

  She looked up and saw Gabriel. He was standing just in front of her, his bag and sword dropped on the bloodied ground beside him.

  “I’ve come back to help,” he said.

  The Shinali woman lay on a blanket waiting to be taken to the healer. Her name was Taslim, and she was first in a long line of wounded waiting for Gabriel’s healing. She had a sword wound in the chest, and breathing was difficult and excruciating. The world seemed shadowed and far away, made dim by pain. Someone sat with her—her son, only thirteen summers old. She spoke her husband’s name, asking after him, but her son only wept aloud and said nothing. Taslim sobbed, and it was agony for her. Ashila came, moved aside Taslim’s upper clothes, and washed her skin with antiseptic liquids. Then men lifted her up on the blanket and carried her to the healer.