A group of men danced about the central fire, and the rest of the clan sat in a circle around them, clapping. The dance seemed to have no predetermined steps, and the men whirled and leaped, their movements uninhibited and frenzied. It took the clan a few moments to notice Gabriel. Several of the dancers hesitated, and the music missed a beat. Then they continued as wildly as before, while Gabriel and Ashila waited on the lower step.
The women all wore simple woollen shifts painted with primitive designs, and the men were in woollen or leather trousers and sleeveless sheepskin vests. Many of the children, and some of the male dancers, were naked. Several of the men had painted their skin with colored clay or ash, and their decorated ocher-and-blue faces shone weirdly in the firelight. The scene was alien, and for a moment Gabriel’s fear returned, and he was all Navoran and in a place he had no right to be. Then he felt Ashila lean close. “They are waking up the strongness in themselves,” she explained, her mouth close to his ear because of the din. “They’re going on a hunt little time. Or a canoe race on the rapids.”
He nodded and relaxed. The music ended in triumphant discord, and everyone cheered.
In the quiet, while a few of the elders whispered and the children giggled, Ashila removed her shoes and left them by the steps with dozens of other pairs. She went to the fire, dropped her bundle of sticks on the hearth, and approached a very old man sitting on the floor. Kneeling in front of him, she spoke in Shinali. Gabriel recognized his own name several times. Some of the adults looked directly at Gabriel, their faces curious but friendly.
Ashila came back to him. “Our chieftain, Oboth, is wanting to talk to you,” she said quietly. “When you greet him, kneel and put your”—she touched his forehead and continued—“on the floor. Then do the greeting I showed you. Don’t hold his hand the Navoran way.”
Gabriel removed his boots, left them next to her shoes, and began to follow Ashila across the dirt floor to Oboth. The men who had been dancing moved aside to make a path for him, but no one spoke. The last man in the group moved to let Ashila pass, but then stepped back directly in front of Gabriel. The Shinali was in his mid-twenties, tall and magnificent, with a mass of black ringlets decorated with beads and leaves. A blue stripe was painted down the center of his face, from his hairline to his roughly trimmed beard, and there were ocher lines on his cheeks. He looked overbearing and fierce, and he considered Gabriel suspiciously, from under lowered lids. He was stark naked, and sweat poured down him from the dance. The paint on his face, mixed with fish oil, smelled rank.
Ashila came back and angrily slapped her right hand hard on the man’s chest, as if to push him away. He did not budge. “He’s breaking the treaty,” he said in Navoran, his eyes holding Gabriel’s. “The farmers, forbidden on Shinali land.”
“He’s not a farmer,” said Ashila.
“What is he, then?”
“A high lot better well-mannered than you,” she replied, and several people laughed. “He’s my guest,” she added. “Give him way, Tarkwan.”
Tarkwan grunted and stepped aside.
Breathing easily again, Gabriel went and knelt in front of the chieftain as Ashila had told him to do. His action caused an undercurrent of surprise among the people. He made the greeting, then sat cross-legged, as the chieftain was sitting, and waited. He noticed, with a shock, that the chieftain was wearing a bone carving identical to the one he wore himself. Memories rushed over him, sharp with guilt, and he realized that the Shinali woman he had failed to help had been Oboth’s daughter. Anguished, he closed his eyes against the painful childhood images, against the kindliness in Oboth’s face.
Seeing the mourning bracelet on Gabriel’s wrist, and misreading his obvious distress, the chieftain said gently, “I am sorry for your pain, my friend. I hope the All-father is being kind to the one you mourn.”
“I know he is,” Gabriel replied, looking up at last and studying the chieftain’s face.
Oboth was a small, wrinkled man with a decisive expression. He had no hair on his head, and his snowy beard was thin. He looked to be well over eighty years old. Gabriel noticed that the whites of his eyes were an unhealthy yellow, and that he trembled constantly. But in spite of whatever pain he endured, the chieftain smiled warmly.
“What are you, Gabriel,” he asked, “besides well-mannered?”
“I’m a healer,” said Gabriel. “I study at the Citadel. That’s the white building standing by itself in the hills.”
Oboth nodded. “We know it. You must be a good healer. Only the best go to the Citadel.”
Embarrassed, Gabriel shook his head. He was surprised that the Shinali knew about the Citadel. “I’m only learning,” he said. “My Masters—they’re the best healers.”
The chieftain smiled again, liking the youth’s humility. “Your parents, what farm?” he asked.
“My father died some time ago. My mother and family have the farm nearest the hills, on the other side of the river. It’s not the one immediately by the river, but the farm next to it.”
“Good flat land, for crops.”
“Yes.”
Oboth launched into a detailed description of which seasons were best for planting particular vegetables, and Gabriel struggled to understand.
“I’m not a gardener,” Gabriel said finally, when Oboth had finished talking about full moons and sickle moons and new moons. “But I’m sure if you were to visit my mother, she’d welcome you and be very glad of your advice.”
“She’d be a rare Navoran,” said Oboth, with a twinkle in his eye. They talked a little longer, while the musicians started their music again. The children began playing a game, one of them hiding a pebble and the others looking for it, while several elderly women started cooking flat unleavened bread on hot stones in the fire’s ashes.
After talking to the chieftain, Gabriel went with Ashila to the far end of the house, where it was quieter. There he met Ashila’s mother, Thandeka, the clan healer, a woman with a forceful, indomitable look like her daughter’s, and a warm smile. She asked him about his work at the Citadel and surprised him by knowing Salverion’s name. She also knew of Amael, the Master of Herbal Medicines. Gabriel wanted to talk more with her, but others came over to meet him and he was claimed by a group of boys eager to hear about the great city of Navora.
Many spoke Navoran, but in broken words and jumbled sentences. He was moved that they wanted to speak his language at all and asked them to teach him some Shinali words. So they did, laughing when he made mistakes, and applauding when he got words right. Even the ones who could not speak Navoran were eloquent, using hand signs and other mimed movements to communicate with him. They all touched his clothes, fingering the thick quilting of his vest and the fine weave of his shirt. Several of the young women stroked his hair, admiring its alien color, and sniffing at the scent of the soaps he had used. He blushed, far more self-conscious than they were.
An old woman hobbled over and shooed the girls away. “Stop touching him,” she growled, in Navoran. “He’s not a horse you’re going to be trading for.”
One of the girls said something in Shinali, and the whole clan broke into laughter. “What did she say?” Gabriel asked Ashila, but she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with mirth, and would not tell him.
They were left alone and sat on the dirt floor to watch the men dance again. Examining the interior of the house, Gabriel saw that it was bigger than he had imagined, and dim but for the firelight and the beam of sun streaming through the smoke hole. In the center of the house the fire burned in a large pit lined with stones. Gourds of water, clay bowls, and cooking pots stood on the wide stone hearth. Around the walls of the dwelling was a raised area like a platform, spread with flax matting and covered with blankets traded from Navora, as well as sheepskins and furs. They were the sleeping places. Above them rose the excavated walls, covered with flax woven into patterns, and adorned with the clan’s treasures: carvings, drums, bows, and spears. Long wooden beams,
gracefully curved, rose from the walls and formed the domed roof, expertly thatched with grass and flax. Through the dimness he glimpsed looms holding partly finished fabrics, and noticed that several people spun wool or flax while they sat talking.
Looking again at the sleeping places, Gabriel had a strong impression of lying in warm furs with the fire crackling across the room. It was like a fleeting memory, disturbing him, filling him with yearning. So many things here seemed to evoke memories: the weapons that looked familiar though he had never seen them before, the haunting music of the flutes, the mingled sounds of the river outside with the Shinali speech and guttural chanting of old men, and the smells of wool and ash. All were familiar, loved; the stuff of childhood images.
He realized that Ashila was watching him intently, her eyes shimmering in the smoky light, her face very grave. “What’s on your mind, Gabriel?” she asked.
“Everything here,” he said. “I dreamed about this place when I was a child. And sometimes since.”
“We believe that when we dream, our soul journeys. Maybe you’ve been here before, and today was the time chosen for your return.”
“For what reason?”
Her eyes held his, and a beautiful smile crossed her face, as if she recognized something joyful and profound. In that moment he knew she had the Vision. He looked away, afraid in case she saw what drew him here.
Across the room the men had finished dancing and were wrestling one another, shouting challenges. “They’re going to race the canoes,” said Ashila, standing up. “Come and watch.”
With all the clan, they went outside. The people shouted with excitement, and Ashila explained that they were placing bets on who would win. They bet their prized possessions—favorite clothes, spears, painted pottery.
Though the wind remained keen, most of the competitors were naked, obviously intending to stay that way for the rough ride through the rapids. Six canoes lay on the riverbank, two paddles in each. Already the men had divided into pairs, though Tarkwan stood alone. Slowly the tall Shinali picked up a paddle from the last boat and went over to Gabriel. Almost casually he threw the paddle to him. The action was a challenge, and as Gabriel caught the paddle, an uneasy silence fell. The clan watched, squinting against the light, while the wind tugged at their hair and tossed their cloaks.
Ashila said to Gabriel, quietly, “Tarkwan goes the high dangerous way, all times only him. Even our warriors don’t like to go in his canoe.”
Gabriel’s eyes met Tarkwan’s. The Shinali was smiling a little, almost laughing. “The Navorans, they have no bravery, haii?” Tarkwan said.
“I’ll go with you,” said Gabriel, though his voice shook. “I was brought up in boats.”
Tarkwan’s smile widened. “Are you getting your clothes wet, healer, or are you taking them off?”
Gabriel swallowed nervously. He had not thought of this. Deciding to compromise, he removed only his vest and shirt. As he took off his shirt he remembered the Shinali bone he wore. Carefully he removed the talisman with his shirt, and rolled it tightly into the clothes. He gave the bundle to Ashila and hoped she would not unroll it. Wearing only his trousers and carrying the paddle, he went over to the canoe. It was hewn from a single log, pointed at the bow and stern, and ornately carved.
Tarkwan bent to pick up the bow of the canoe, and Gabriel lifted the stern. “Afraid the women will see you, and laugh?” asked Tarkwan loudly, glancing mockingly at Gabriel’s trousers.
“I’m afraid,” Gabriel replied, equally loud, “that if the women see me, they’ll be laughing at you.”
The clan roared with merriment, and Tarkwan grinned as they carried the canoe down into the water. The river closed about Gabriel’s legs, instantly numbing them. Tarkwan held the boat while Gabriel got in, and gave him instructions. The other canoes were already waiting, the men paddling to hold them stationary in the current. Oboth stood on the bank, his arms raised. Shivering with terror and cold, Gabriel stared past Tarkwan’s back at the foaming water ahead. Then Oboth’s arms went down, and the canoes shot forward.
Tarkwan chanted, and Gabriel paddled in time with his rhythm. The work was easy at first, as they sped through the deep pools and skimmed over barely submerged rocks. Gabriel noticed that the other canoes kept close by the shore far to his left. Soon the waters became swift and treacherous, and he fought to keep control, his knees pressed against Tarkwan’s back. They plunged through churning rapids, and the last glimpse Gabriel had of the other canoes was of dark shapes still far to his left and falling fast behind. Behind them, too, were the farmlands and the plain. They had entered a steep valley sliced between the hills, and there was no time for anything but watching the seething water and responding to Tarkwan’s shouted commands.
Thunder filled his ears and the canoe pitched, tilting, over the edge of a waterfall. There were breathtaking seconds of weightlessness, then turmoil as the boat hit the water again. Icy forces surged over them and Gabriel thought, in that strange timeless calm at the core of supreme danger, how ironic it was that one half-mad Shinali should accomplish what the most cunning men in the Empire had failed to do. But he did not die; the canoe bounded up into the light and rushed on again.
Tarkwan’s arms worked powerfully, the paddle flashing in the sun in time to his chant. Sweat and water poured down him, and he punctuated his chant with shouts of pure pleasure. Without realizing it Gabriel shouted with him; then they were plummeting down another waterfall, and beyond that through deep swirling pools. Gabriel roared at Tarkwan in fury as the canoe spun fast, seemingly out of control, and overhanging rocks flashed perilously close to their heads. Then they shot forward again, fast as an arrow, the waters thundering about them. Suddenly the river widened, became flat and quiet, and the race was over.
They were the first through. Risking a glance behind him now, Gabriel saw four of the other canoes still battling the last rapids, close to the far shore. A canoe had overturned under the second waterfall, and the men had abandoned it and were downriver, swimming ashore where the waters were easier.
Breathing hard, exultant, Gabriel and Tarkwan paddled to the shore, then carried the canoe up onto the stones. As they emptied the water out of it, Tarkwan said: “Not bad work, for a well-mannered Navoran.”
“A mad Navoran, you mean,” said Gabriel, his teeth chattering. He was blue with cold and shaking so much he could hardly talk, but his grin was as big as Tarkwan’s.
They were met by people who had walked here earlier, bearing blankets and clothes. At first the group was disconcerted to see Gabriel, but they greeted him courteously, since he had paddled in Tarkwan’s canoe, and congratulated him. Because they had not expected a newcomer, there were no dry trousers for Gabriel; but they gave him a thick blanket and a sheepskin jacket painted with Shinali designs. Still shivering, Gabriel stood beside Tarkwan and watched the other canoes finish. Tarkwan hugged his friends as they came ashore, and he and Gabriel graciously accepted their praise.
Carrying the canoes, they started the long walk back, keeping to the pebbly shore along the steep river valley, then skirting the farms and crossing the grasslands toward the Shinali house. It was late afternoon when they got back. People ran to meet them, and when they were told who had won, there were hugs and cheers. Gabriel found himself going from one embrace to another. All the young people hugged him, kissing both his cheeks and laughing at his blue lips, and the elders congratulated him in Shinali, briefly touching his chest with their palms.
He looked for Ashila. She was standing a little way apart from all the excitement, her arms about an elderly woman who could only shuffle along. But she smiled at him, her dark eyes fervent and admiring, and she got the color back in his face again.
In the house he found his shirt and vest exactly as he had rolled them, but warming on the hearth. Tarkwan’s younger brother, Yeshi, pressed a pair of trousers into his arms. The trousers were soft brown leather painted with red-and-black animals and were Yeshi’s best. Gabriel thanked
him, found a quiet space near the sleeping platform, and removed the Shinali jacket and his own soaking trousers. Entranced by his pale skin, a group of children stood watching him, creeping closer and closer, until he felt little fingers in his hair and down his back. He tolerated them until they got too familiar, then he growled suddenly like a dog, and the children fled, shrieking and laughing. He pulled on Yeshi’s trousers and his own shirt and vest, luxuriating in the warmth. Unobserved, he hid the bone carving inside his shirt. When he went back to the fire a woman took his leather trousers and hung them over a stick to dry. He thanked her, found a space by the hearth, and sat there to thaw out.
Tarkwan offered Gabriel a drink of wine in a rough clay bowl. “It was part of the payment for the land,” Tarkwan explained, sitting beside him. “The best Navoran wine, they said.”
Gabriel tasted it; it was like vinegar. “To the river,” he said, raising the bowl. “And to excellent canoes.”
As Tarkwan lifted his bowl as well, Gabriel noticed a blue spiral tattooed on the Shinali’s left breast. He stared at it, old memories flashing back. He saw the Shinali woman again, wounded on the rocks; the spiral tattoo on her breast; and her face, beautiful and strong, and so like Tarkwan’s. She had been his sister. Again remorse and fear tore through Gabriel. He’d kill me if he knew, he thought.
Tarkwan finished his wine in a few thirsty gulps, then wiped his hand across his dripping chin. “It’s good wine?” he asked.
“Not the best,” Gabriel replied.
Tarkwan laughed, but the sound had a bitter ring. “They cheated us, haii?” he said. “Navoran dogs.”
Other people sat down to drink. Besides the wine, pottery bowls of hot herbal tea were passed around. Offered, too, were the flat cakes of steaming bread. Relaxing a little, Gabriel realized that he was hungry. After the bread came warmed meat and generous chunks of smoked fish. There were vegetables, too: yellow roots cooked in ashes, and salads made of cress and wild mint. The musicians started playing again, and people began to sing. Since they sang between mouthfuls of food and sometimes while chewing them, the sound was not consistent or wonderful, but Gabriel enjoyed it. Several times he thought of Myron, and a tight feeling went across his chest. But most of the time he forgot, and listened to the flutes and singing and talk, cherishing the rambunctious company. Often he sought Ashila and glimpsed her talking to friends or feeding someone’s child, or just sitting across the fire observing him. Many times their eyes met, and they smiled; and there spun between them something fine and strong and unforgettable.