“Enough, Neshwan!” shouted Santoshi, startling me, for she was usually quiet. “It’s not true, what you say! Avala, she’s healed us time and time again. She has her father’s gifts, and she uses them. What have you ever done, except go off on hunts and killed rabbits and deer? Does that make a warrior of you?”
“You didn’t complain, when you ate the meat I got,” he replied. “And my hunting bow does make a warrior of me. What will Avala’s herbs and poultices do, in the Time of the Eagle? Will she rush about the battlefield with her ferocious bundles of herbs and brave little bandages?”
His friends laughed again, and some of the other boys and girls stood up beside me.
“My father had only his healing power,” I said, “and he accomplished great things.”
Neshwan snorted, and turned away. “She’s not worth arguing with,” he said to his friends. “She’s hiding behind her father again.”
They sauntered off, and some of my friends shouted rude things after them. I turned away and began walking back to the tents. I realized I was weeping and was furious with myself for it. I wiped my arm across my face and smudged red and blue paint across the sleeve of my new dress.
Santoshi came with me, putting her arm about my shoulders. “He’s a snapping wolf cub,” she said. “Don’t be worrying about him.”
“Is it true, Santoshi?” I asked. “Do I hide behind my father? Do people love me just because of him, because of what he did for us?”
“No, of course not!” she cried. “You did not choose your father. We’d love you even if he was a one-eyed hunter who couldn’t shoot a stag at two paces.”
“You say that because you’re my friend,” I said.
“Yes, I am your friend. Your friend, not your father’s friend. I didn’t know your father, so I see only you. I see a friend I admire for her healing power, for her gentleness, for her truth which is arrow straight. I see a friend who many times gives her last strength to heal the sick, who is so tired after that she cannot crawl to her own bed. That kind of strength, it’s more than the strength it takes to draw a bow.”
“But I might be needing bow strength, now,” I said. “Zalidas said I have to go and do great things. I have to be a warrior. I can’t. I want to be a healer. I wish Zalidas had not said those things last night.”
Santoshi put her hands on my shoulders, stopping me. “You say you can’t do great things,” she said. “I’m thinking that you already do them. As for Zalidas and his heavy sayings . . . Well, there’s something I want you to know, that I’ve not told anyone before. When I had my sixteenth borning-day feast, Zalidas told me I would one day suffer a high lot, but I would grow strong because of it, and I must never lose courage. With all my heart, I wished he hadn’t said that. He also said—to cheer me up, I think—that I would marry that little weasel, Taiwo. I didn’t see that as a blessing, either.”
We laughed, leaning on each other, for she and Taiwo were betrothed now, and a high lot in love.
“Come to the river, and I’ll help you wash away that paint,” Santoshi said. “The blue eagle and the red horse, they’re already meeting on a battlefield, on your face.”
I crouched beside Zalidas and felt the waves of pain that came from him. His eyes were closed and he seemed asleep, but he moaned at times, his eyelids moving as if he dreamed. On the other side of him sat my mother, wiping the sweat from his face with a damp cloth. She gave the cloth to me, and placed her hand under his head, on the back of his neck. She became very still, her eyes closed as she sought out, in her inner knowing, the deep pathways of his pain; and from her fingertips she sent a light that eased and revived. It was beautiful, watching her heal. This skill she had taught to me, and it was better than a hundred herbs for pain, for it wiped out all feeling for a time and brought complete freedom from suffering. Many of her ways she had passed on to me, but some of the secret healings, taught to her by my father during the terrible weeks of their imprisonment in Taroth Fort, were still known only to her.
Soon the priest’s breathing became slow and deep, and he slept like a child.
“What is wrong with him?” I whispered.
“It’s his heart,” my mother replied. “It put a big strain on his body last night, when his spirit moved in the realms of the All-father.”
People were coming in quietly to rest, for it was the middle of the day, and the sun was intolerable. Even my friends came in this day, to rest alongside the elders and smallest children, and my mother told me to rest, too, since I had been awake all night. So I went to my sleeping place and lay down.
The sleeping places were laid out along the outer floor of the tent, under the walls, and were never walked upon, for they were sacred to us. The most important place was Yeshi’s, and we lay in order of rank out from him. Next to him were his wife, and then Zalidas, and then my mother, as healer, and me, with my grandmother on my other side. But this day Zalidas was by the central hearth, where my mother could wash him easily and give him medicines. Though I was very tired, at first I could not sleep, and lay for a while looking about the tent.
Above the sleeping places the deerskin walls were painted with scenes of my people’s life from the days when they owned their own land: images of children fishing in a wide river, flocks of sheep, deer hunters, and a large thatched mound in the earth that had been the tribal underground home. The scenes were painted in detail, lovingly, and I thought on Yeshi’s story, and how our ancestral land was our place of belonging, our hearts’ home.
I slept, and dreamed of looking after sheep. But in my dream a wolf came, and I had to fight it with my bare hands. But while I wrestled with the wolf, my face came close to its face, and I saw that it had my blue eyes. I woke sweating and shaking. Though everyone else was still asleep, I got up and changed out of my beautiful dress and put on my old one, woven of wool. It was frayed now, and the paintings on it were faded. I went over to my mother, still sitting by Zalidas.
“I’m going to collect the rest of the eysela flowers at the far end of the gorge,” I said. “They’re too precious to leave, and they won’t last many days in this heat.”
She looked suddenly anxious. “Take care, love,” she said. “I know that if ever you have the All-father’s protection, it is surely now—but even so, take care.”
I got our gathering-bag and made sure I had my small knife in my belt. The tunic my father had painted I put into the bag, for evenings could be cool, even in high summer. At the tent entrance I put on my shoes, and my mother came to say good-bye.
On an impulse, I pressed my hand to my chest, then placed my palm over my mother’s heart. “My heart and yours will always be together,” I said.
She looked surprised, for it was the age-old Shinali farewell, not used unless the parting was to be long. But she, too, made the farewell, and though she smiled I felt a sudden and sharp sorrow in her.
Then I walked away.
4
Soon flies the Eagle, swift as fire, gathering in its shadow the might
Of those who once were foes; then in oneness we shall fight,
And the fields of the destroyers shall turn to fire,
Their city be destroyed, and their empire
Shall cease.
And by the ashen fields and city felled spring up two mighty trees,
Roots separate, yet branches held in unity, two nations free,
All wrongs made right, all things restored
And every spear and sword
Laid down in Peace
In the Eagle’s Time.
—Song of Zalidas
It was sunset when I reached the far end of the gorge. Walking across the churned dust and the prints made earlier by the soldiers and horses, I thought of the Igaal people, and how they would now be mourning the battle-slain and those taken in slavery. I reached the place of the eysela flowers and removed the precious tunic from the gathering-bag and put it on, for already the air was cool. Then I took my knife from my belt and bent to pick the
remaining flowers. At last I had them all and stood and looked about me at a world aflame.
To the west the sun quivered red as blood on the brow of the purple mountains; beside me the river flowed like molten brass; and in the east the lands burned with fiery light, glorious beyond words. A great quiet hung upon the earth, a kind of holiness, and I lifted my eyes and saw an eagle drifting high. And as I gazed upon the bird and the vast enemy lands all around, I thought of the time to come, the time of the great prophecy. And while I thought on these things my vision changed, and it seemed that the eagle grew and covered all the earth, and fire flew from its pinions and claws, and the skies shook with the thunder of its wings; and I saw the huge armies of Navora and the mighty city crumble and fall like a field of wheat before the fire. I saw, out of the ashes, two trees grow: a tree from our new-won Shinali lands and a tree from the Navoran farmlands nearby; I saw Navorans and Shinali together grow crops and tend the lands, and a new people springing up, the eagle’s wings spread wide across them in promise and in peace. And I knew, in those moments, that the words of our priest, Zalidas, had been true: that the Time of the Eagle was at hand, and I would play my part in it. As the vision ended wonder came over me, and I was no longer afraid or tormented by questions. I was sure at last that my part would be revealed, and that when the time came for me to act, everything I needed would be given to me.
Slipping my knife back into its sheath, I lifted my bag higher onto my shoulder, ready to go. The awe of the vision was still strong on me, and peace enfolded me like a cloak. I was about to turn away, to begin the long walk home, when I noticed a ragged shape on the stones ahead, between the river and the plain. I went closer, and saw that it was a man. Very still he was, as still as death, and a cloud of flies hovered over him.
I thought that perhaps it was a soldier fallen from his horse. But as I drew near I saw that he wore no soldier’s uniform. He wore leather trousers such as our men wore, and an open coat badly torn. His hair was cut short, and under the dust and sweat on his face, I saw that his brow and nose were tattooed with zigzag marks. The tattoos were the same on both sides of his face, and were strangely beautiful, though the lines were violent and sharp. He was of the Igaal people.
He was on his back, very still, his eyes closed. Tied to his belt was the end of a lion’s tail—his trophy, no doubt, from a hunt. But he had paid dear for it, for there were deep cuts down his chest where the beast’s claws had sliced through his tunic and his skin, right to the bones of his ribs. The flesh on his left thigh was torn also to the bone. Flies swarmed over his injuries, and I brushed them away and lifted his coat to feel his heart. His skin was very hot, slick with blood and sweat, and his heart beat faintly.
I was still holding up his coat, wondering what first to do to help him, when he shot out his hand and grabbed my wrist. Arrow swift he was, and strong, though I knew his strength would not last long.
“You take an awful liberty, Shinali woman,” he said, opening his eyes a slit, and looking at me.
“Not as much liberty as the lion,” I replied.
“It paid for it.” His voice was rough and guttural and, although his accent was strange to me, I understood his words. I understood another thing, also, as I crouched there, his fingers about my wrist in the same place where, not long before, Zalidas had held me: I suddenly knew how it could be that I was the Daughter of the Oneness, the link between my people and those who were age-old enemies; and it seemed to me then that all my life had been a preparation for this moment, this act of mercy, with this man.
“I’ll bring you some water,” I said, pulling my wrist free, for already his strength was gone. “Do you have a waterskin I can fill?”
He lifted his right hand, feeling for something behind his belt, and I noticed that in order to do so he had dropped a knife, curved and bloodstained. For the space of two heartbeats I was afraid. Half closing my eyes, I studied the light about him. I saw no violent reds, only a shadow of great grief shot through with pain.
“Lost it,” he said, not finding his waterskin. Then he collapsed back, fatigued.
“I shall have to take you to the river,” I said.
With care I removed the eysela flowers from my bag and spread them out in rows on a long flat stone. I was glad the sun was gone, for in the cool of the evening they would not wither. When the bag was empty I spread it out on the ground beside the man.
“If you can move onto the bag,” I said, “I’ll drag you to the water.”
Groaning, sometimes crying out words I did not know but that I guessed were Igaal curses, he struggled onto the bag. I picked up the handle behind him and began to haul him over the stones. He was a big man, tall and large boned, though there was no fat on him. He helped all he could, though sweat poured into his eyes and down all of him, and I could see that he was on the edge of fainting. After a little while we stopped, both of us breathless, and the man lay flat on his back, a pulse thumping wildly in his throat. I thought he had fainted, but after a time he spoke.
“Horses I’ve ridden and once, in a time of dire need, a donkey,” he said, “but never have I ridden a woman’s gathering-bag. I hope my brothers never find out.”
I laughed, wiping my arm across my face. “My mother won’t be impressed, either,” I said. “It’s her best bag.”
Then I bent and picked up the thick handle again.
By the time we got to the river the man had fainted, and the cuts in his chest were pulsing blood. I soaked the hem of my long dress and wrung it out over his lips. Revived enough to move again, he scrambled on his hands and knees to the water. A long time he leaned over the pebbly shallows, scooping water into his mouth with his hand. Then he washed his face and head, and rolled over onto his back and let the water run over him. The river gurgled on, stained with his blood.
“By the sweet goddess Shimit,” he said, laughing, “I’ve died and gone to paradise.”
“You’ll die in truth if I don’t stop that bleeding,” said I. Wading into the stream, I began to haul him ashore. Suddenly he gripped my wrist, and I was alarmed at the force in him.
“Death won’t claim me yet,” he said, “not before I return home. You’ll take me there, Shinali woman.”
“I’ll take you to my tribe,” I said. “Nowhere else.”
“To my home,” he said. “I saw the soldiers. I have to know what happened to my tribe.”
“Let me go,” I said. “My people are camped just at the end of the gorge, near the river. It won’t take long for me to run there. I’ll bring men to come and help you. This I swear. My people—”
“Your people are dogs! Speak no more of them! I know about your people and their weak and foolish ways. I want nothing to do with them. But you—you are here, now. So you will take me. You.”
Then I did see the reds of violence about him, and tried to pull free. But he jerked suddenly on my arm, and I fell into the shallows with him. Struggling, I bit and kicked, and he lifted his knife, and I thought he was going to kill me. Then something crashed across my head, and I knew nothing for a time.
Pain pulled me back. I opened my eyes and saw the night sky bright with stars. He had hauled me onto the shore and was lying beside me, leaning up on one elbow watching me. He seemed much revived. There was a tightness about my neck, and I put up my hand and felt a thick leather thong, and realized he had used my belt for a noose and tethered me like an animal. My knife, too, was gone.
I staggered up and tried to run, for I thought he was not strong enough yet to hold me; but he had tied the other end of my tether about his own wrist, and as the cord between us went taut, the noose about my neck tightened and I fell, choking and half strangled, onto my knees. I pulled it away so I could breathe. Then, dizzy and sick, I sat down as far from him as my tether would allow.
“If you want to breathe,” he said, getting to his feet, “stay close.”
“I did not lie to you,” I said, desperate for him to understand. “My people will help you. The
y want—”
“Your people want our hunting grounds!” he said. “They lost their own lands, now they want ours! Don’t try to deceive me, Shinali woman! Now come.”
I stayed where I was, and he pulled on the cord. Choking, I got up and went to him.
“Walk in the river,” he said, leaning heavily on me and hopping on his good leg. The smell of him mingled with the ache in my head and the bile in my throat, and I hoped I would not get sick. We went down into the shallows, and I realized he was making sure my people could not track us when they came.
I looked back, thinking of the precious flowers laid upon the rock, and of the gathering-bag abandoned on the stones, stained dark with the man’s blood, and of my mother finding them. An awful grief washed over me as we faced the Igaal lands and began our long walk. Then my vision came to me again, and an echo of the old priest’s words. I remembered that Zalidas had talked of a blessed cord that binds, though I did not think he meant this leather tethering cord about my neck.
A cold wind moaned across the grasslands, which were silver-blue beneath the moon. I shivered underneath the tunic with my father’s canoes, even though I could feel the heat of the man’s arm across my shoulders. Heavily he leaned on me, and I could feel his body shaking, hot with poison fever. It was a marvel to me that he could still go on. He was breathing hard, and we had spoken few words. Suddenly he stumbled, almost taking both of us to the ground.
“I’m thinking you should rest now,” I said.
He shook his head. Moonlight glimmered on the black stains on his coat, and I knew he was bleeding again. We had crossed the grasslands and were at the foot of the hills on the other side. As we struggled up the first hill the man swayed, and I thought he would collapse. But he went on, groaning with every move, his eyes closed as he summoned strength. Slowly, slowly, we climbed another hill, then we were among trees. I smelled pine and felt the needles cool and smooth under my thin deerskin shoes.
Again the man stumbled, and this time I helped him ease himself to the ground. He lay on his back in a small hollow between two trees, and in the pitch blackness I could barely see him. But I could hear his groans, his anguished breath. I went as far from him as I could, before the noose about my neck pulled to choke me, and looked through the trees at the low hills. Already the wind, rustling and tossing the long silver grasses, had swept away our footsteps.