Sanyel, Page 2

We Sakita were a simple clan. A tribe of unknown origin, we lived out our days roaming the open plains, low hills, and dense forests our ancestors had roamed. We were nomads who traveled familiar trails, seeking the wild herds that ensured our survival. Our lives unfolded within the boundaries of an enclave ringed by high mountains, and behind those rock walls our ranks grew and shrank and grew again, ever changing over the centuries due to the uncertainties of a precarious existence.

  Our climate was a moderate one, with temperatures seldom rising or falling to any extreme, except perhaps in the summer, though the differences in our seasons were barely discernible. Thus, the land held green throughout the year, and we came to know this green complexion as the constant color of our world, with the plains and hills and forests all eternally cast in its various tints. It was upon, among, and within these that we stalked our prey and gathered what bounty they could provide. They were our sustenance through good years and bad, sometimes generous in their offerings and at other times as miserly as a nut-hoarding starfen.

  Our complete reliance on the natural world’s serviceable aspects did not limit its appeal to us in other areas, for we also possessed a keen awareness of the aesthetic fortune of our surroundings. We appreciated the artistry of nature’s painter, splashing ever-changing patterns and hues across a morning or evening sky. We thrilled over the rolling splendor of tall grasses bowing in waves before sweeping winds and welcomed the rumblings of a summer storm or the inspiring display of a starlit night. Above all, we admired and strove to reflect in our temperament the calm and stately solitude of the towering Kodor Mountains, the white-haired sentinels that enclosed and protected our domain.

  Within the ring-shaped boundary of this Kodor range, the lands of the Sakita formed the flat bottom of a vast bowl. It was a bowl shaped nearly to perfection by the encircling heights. As viewed from the basin’s center, these snow-capped mountains formed the bowl’s sloping sides, with the only crack in this vessel located to the south. There, a narrow gap opened out into the Desert of Bones, giving the appearance that its very sands had emptied from the bowl fracture. Transecting the bowl and connecting the eastern and western mountains was the mighty river Raso, which snaked its way west and southwest in numerous turns and twists on its way to parts unknown. Exploration showed it vanished into an underground cavern as it reached the base of the western mountains.

  Our land lay south of the Raso. North of the river was Raab territory. The Raab were a nomadic people like ourselves and the only other tribe known to us. Naturally, we were enemies. For a majority of the year, the Raso River protected us from Raab raiding parties, for it was too wild to navigate. However, when low in summer, Raab incursions proved inevitable, as warriors crossed the river seeking slaves and glory.

  To be fair, our tribesmen raided their lands as well. Over the centuries, bloody skirmishes established these encounters as a proving ground for individual strength and bravery. I had witnessed the results of these battles—men returning with broken limbs and torn flesh, often carrying the bodies of their less fortunate brethren. Both sides accepted these losses as the price one pays for glory, and for cementing one’s reputation as a warrior.

  Though both tribes roamed freely across the ample lands within this Kodor bowl, its boundaries also trapped us there. The mountains that encircled us were too high to cross, so who or what lay beyond them was unknown. Furthermore—even if not forbidden by law—no one from our tribe would dare journey too great a distance into the endless sands of the aptly named Desert of Bones, a seeming death sentence for all who tried.

  This, then, was our existence. We followed the Raso River and its branches whenever convenient. From them we probed the lush lands south to the desert during a yearlong trek that would take us from the eastern mountain range to the western and then back. We were hunters, so we followed the game. We grew no crops and tended no livestock, for we knew nothing of such things. Our lives depended on the spears and skill of our men in tracking and taking down the wild animals that abundantly graced our domain. Apart from fish and the animals we stalked and ate, our only other food source was what grew in the natural world, gathered when it was available to us. Our numbers were not small, but they also did not add up to a sizable community. Thus, each birth raised voices in praise of Ra-ta, the sun god, and each death was as demoralizing as an empty pot at the end of the hunt. For as long as our stories go back, this was the way of the Sakita. I had no idea it would change so dramatically in my lifetime.

  My father's humiliation by the tribal council led him to rebel in a direct, but subtle way. Only a male could be a spiritual leader and healer in our tradition, with all rituals and practices associated with that role forbidden to female members of our tribe. Those who refused to abide by these strict laws faced harsh punishment. In the most egregious cases, that involved a visit to the executioner, and along with the rare thief or murderer, an opportunity to feel the tickle of a sharp blade.

  At best, the offender faced banishment to the Desert of Bones. There, condemned to wander and count hills of sand, he'd survive only until Ra-ta, god of the sun, showed mercy and decided the malefactor had counted enough. My father had no desire to count sand hills and yet he did desire to teach me all he knew about being a shaman. He felt he could minimize the danger by being prudent about where and when the teaching took place.

  My training began not long after taking my first steps, but it was not until I turned seven that my father felt me capable of retaining more than just rudimentary knowledge. We would sneak out as others slept, seeking a flower with a distinctive indigo tint to make a healing salve, or perhaps looking for an herb that could dampen the effects of a raging fever. Each time out my father would speak the words, the cautionary words that defined my formative years.

  “You must tell no one, Sanyel, ever. This is our secret.”

  The necessity for that secrecy I have already revealed, but the genesis of our stern and strict laws on the matter is nebulous at best. One chapter from the tales of our tribe’s origin—stories that are of hazy origin themselves—forms the basis for our current beliefs. Since we had no written language, our history was an oral one, and this is one of the stories handed down for generations through speakers trained to the task.

  In brief, it states that a man, Kator, appeared in the world. Ra-ta, the sun god and the man’s creator, presented him with the gift of fire, a connecting link to himself. A woman, Brosel, then appeared and told the man the fire was not enough, that there were pursuits outside its boundaries that could bring equal satisfaction. The man sought these outside adventures and neglected to tend the fire, which flamed out, condemning them both to endless cold and darkness. Kator pleaded with Ra-ta to restore the fire that was the sun god’s connection to him in the physical world. Kator promised Ra-ta he would be diligent in tending the fire, but in return required power over Brosel and her tempting words. Ra-ta saw the sincerity of Kator’s request and granted Kator the return of fire and control over Brosel.

  It’s an interesting story, but is it accurate? This one tale sparked the idea that men should control and women obey. Would Ra-ta grant men such powers at the expense of half the population, in effect forever condemning women to a secondary role? I find that implausible. My father told me that these tales contained important symbolic and esoteric elements that offered meanings that went beyond the literal. However, it seemed our leaders preferred the easy comfort of shallow interpretation and had no patience for any deeper or more sophisticated analysis.

  In any event, that story resulted in men controlling not only all aspects of Sakitan religious life, but most others as well. I have always had a problem with many of the tribal laws that have evolved from this dominance, in particular those that restrict women. It seems that over the years the sacred words have excused some questionable actions and beliefs. To me, if you use the sacred words to fashion laws that sanction discrimination or oppression
, then you are not serving Ra-ta’s true intent.

  Over time, the sacred spiritual knowledge allegedly given to all men through Ra-ta’s symbolic fire became entrusted to a select group—the shaman and his chosen apprentices. My father initiated me into this fascinating world of the medicine man by first teaching me how to identify various healing herbs and flowers. He showed me how to mix and match ingredients, making sure I could differentiate between what was benign and what was lethal. My father taught me the proper way to chant and instructed me in the significance of each timed step of our sacred dances, important in garnering support from the spirit world. I learned to focus my thoughts, and with practice how to go deep within to find answers to questions unanswerable by the conscious mind.

  One day, during a deeper than normal meditation, an animal appeared to me. My intuition told me that it was a young can-rak. The beast slunk towards me, its green, sinewy body crouching low as if to strike. It had glossy skin and its fiery mane seemed lit from an inner source. White, razor-sharp teeth lined its open jaws. Its flaming yellow eyes bore into me with such a staunch fervor that the intensity of the experience jolted me back into a waking state.

  “A can-rak?” my father questioned. “Are you certain?”

  I assured him I was, though I had never seen one in the flesh.

  Nanki was overjoyed. He informed me that the creature was my spirit animal and he felt amazed that it had come to me so soon. He knew a shaman’s apprentice usually required years of intense training before its animal helper was willing to show itself; it first wanted to determine if the recipient was worthy. It astounded my father that the animal was a can-rak, for as far as he knew, that fearsome creature had never presented itself as a spirit helper to anyone.

  “The can-rak will guide you in all spiritual matters from this moment on,” my father told me. “Accept its many gifts. It is certain, Sanyel, that you will have considerable power over animals of all stripes, for your spirit guide, the can-rak, is the master of the animal realm.” I did not understand what my father meant, but he assured me I would in time.

  My father felt learning the ways of the shaman must also include other skills—deadlier skills. He wanted me to learn to defend myself, so he instructed me in the ways of the hunter and warrior. We practiced in secret, day upon day, the physical movements he wished me to master. I learned the most effective offensive and defensive strategies to utilize when engaging opponents. I learned how to spot, in short order, the tendencies and skill level of an adversary, how to parry an attacker’s moves, how to use his momentum against him to gain the advantage, and how to end a conflict with success.

  My father insisted I carry boulders from one location to another to build up my strength, and to utilize distance running to increase my endurance. In the forest, I learned how to clamber up trees and with confidence steer my way among their heights. By wearing my favorite garment, a short, sleeveless tunic cinched with a cloth band at my waist, and by tying my long, blond hair into a tight bun to keep it from catching, my unhindered arms and legs allowed me to climb with speed and to maneuver unimpeded. My strength and agility improved in dramatic form from these activities, and my father was pleased with the impressive results.

  My weapons training included practice with both the long spear and the keen-bladed short knife known as the rik-ta. I worked with an incessant dedication until those weapons were as parts of my body. As I practiced, intuitive insights would come to me. These were insights into how to execute a move in a better, more efficient, or surprising way than that normally taught. I was developing techniques never seen before, and my new methods impressed Nanki.

  I was so proud when he said, “Sanyel, you astonish me! Not even I grasped so quickly the properties of the healing herbs and the difficult notes of the sacred chants. And praise Ra-ta how you are learning to use these weapons. In time you will be the envy of any male warrior!”

  One day, when I was perhaps ten, my best friend, Lillatta, saw us departing camp and followed us to our current training area deep within a forest. My father was numb with fear over Lillatta discovering our clandestine activities, for the council had delicate hearing. It would seal our doom if even a whisper of our subversive actions should find their ears. Our indiscretions, however, far from horrified Lillatta.

  “I want to train too,” she pleaded with my father.

  Nanki was reluctant, knowing one slip of Lillatta’s tongue could mean death for us all. Lillatta was persistent, however, so only after making her swear an oath of secrecy on the bark of the sacred wettle tree did my father allow her to train with us.

  I have to say that those times with Lillatta and my father were some of the best I have known. Every few months we moved our campsite to a new location, moves necessary to maintain contact with the migrating herds. With each new site, my father would find a sheltered area to use for training. These were often in the nearest forest, which were plentiful throughout Sakita lands. Having Lillatta there to share my lessons, my aches and my joys, and having that grave secret to bind us, made the grinding work not only bearable, but also almost enjoyable in many ways. My father would not allow Lillatta to learn the ways and secrets of the shaman, but the two of us were always together in our physical preparation, attempting to master the weapons and tactics only our male tribesmen had known in our history.

  The weapons most familiar to our tribe were the spear and the rik-ta. With my spear I would practice piercing the center of round wedges my father had cut from wettle trees and placed all over the forest. I could soon hit the marks from almost any reasonable angle or distance. However, it was the rik-ta, my short, razor-sharp knife, that I took the greatest pleasure in mastering. I could, after all my practice, remove it from its sheath in the time it took to blink, and then slice or stab body parts of a dummy my father had fashioned out of straw to represent a foe. Lillatta’s freckled face would get that look, almost of awe, as she saw the relish I took and efficiency I demonstrated in stabbing, slicing, and gutting the straw figure.

  “At least give it a chance to fight back,” Lillatta would joke. I always laughed, but I had to admit to a calm and cold deliberateness that invariably came over me as I attacked the poor dummy’s vulnerable areas. It was almost as if I knew I would need these lethal skills somewhere down the road.

  One day, mid journey through our yearly trek, perhaps when I was about eleven, Lillatta and I happened upon a nest of red-footed starfens. They scattered among the forest ferns as we approached. One of them attempted to scale a tree fifty paces from our position. Without thinking, I cleared my rik-ta from its sheath and let it fly. To my astonishment, the knife sailed as if on a taut string and struck true to its mark, pegging the rodent to the bark through its neck.

  “Nice throw!” Lillatta said. A mischievous grin split her face. “Of course you know you have to eat it now.”

  I was well aware of my father’s strict rules about eating whatever one killed. I also knew of the starfen’s reputation. What could be less appealing than a creature so foul tasting that even a starving hunter would pause before attempting to make a meal of one?

  Lillatta—acting a bit too cheerful if you ask me—started a fire while I gutted and skinned the unfortunate rodent. When well roasted on the spit and dripping its greasy fat into the fire, I ripped off a section of meat (if you could call it that) and tried swallowing it without chewing. At once, I began to gag. Lillatta howled with glee as I struggled to keep this gross abomination from exiting from the place it had just entered. At last, I regained control over my throat muscles and swallowed the repulsive flesh. Lillatta was on the ground, laughing hysterically. Her auburn hair flailed about as she rocked back and forth, and as her body convulsed, I grabbed what remained of the rodent carcass and heaved it as far from my sight as I could muscle it.

  “How was it?” Lillatta teased when she could at last speak.

  “Just you wait,�
€ I promised, “I’ll make you eat a sarkat someday.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’ll try.”

  I raised a water skin to my lips to rinse my mouth of the rancid rodent taste. I handed Lillatta the water and took note of her puzzled expression.

  “Tell me San, that throw with the rik-ta. That was luck, right? I have never seen a throw like that, not at that distance, not even from the men.”

  “Of course. It was just a lucky throw. You know no one can toss a knife that far on purpose, at least not with any accuracy. It was just luck.”

  I realized even as I spoke those words that they were untrue. It was not luck. Something unusual had happened when I tossed that knife. A power I should not have possessed had propelled my throw as if it were a lightning bolt from Ra-ta’s hand. And as sure as I am of the course the river Raso must flow, I knew that luck had played no part in the blade finding its mark.

  Lillatta and I continued our covert training whenever circumstances would allow. The time available to these unsanctioned pursuits depended on how industrious we were in attending to the daily chores and duties required to maintain our community. Apart from the hunt, much of the work took place around our campsite and involved processing the materials acquired by us through hunting and gathering. Turning a resource into a permanent practical item, or into something as fleeting as the next meal, required a constant diligence.

  Sakitan men and women had their separate divisions of work, with both contributing to the efficient running of the camp. The work varied, with both sexes skilled in their respective tasks and adept at locating the natural materials essential to each process. The women, for example, were proficient weavers, using the smooth, flexible fibers of banton reeds to construct a diverse assortment of useful utensils and coverings. These reeds grew along the riverbanks, and mats woven from their fibers formed a serviceable, water-resistant skin for our tents. We also manufactured a variety of baskets from this all-purpose reed, then decorated them with intricate designs and colored them in the hues of the rensa plant. Several varieties of this plant existed, and each could produce a different, vivid color from its extracted pigment.

  From the fruit of the fibrous jottel plant, the skilled women of the tribe were able to manufacture durable cloth through a process discovered and mastered over time. The jottel had allowed us long ago to abandon animal skins as clothing for more breathable, lightweight apparel. Garments woven from this plant’s fibers were of a pleasing, pliant texture, and dyes formulated from the rensa pigments rendered exquisite colors to this absorbent fabric.

  Besides the bounty of these invaluable plants, we had access to an abundance of other natural resources from which the tribe could draw profit. Rich clay from along the banks of the Raso allowed us to fashion serviceable pottery in various forms and sizes, ranging from small bowls to expansive pots, all fire hardened into solid vessels. Profuse metal ore deposits discovered along our bordering mountains permitted easy surface mining of this precious substance, a material of incalculable value to our hunting culture. Over the years, through determined effort, we had gained enough skill in working these ores to be able to manufacture a strong, malleable metal that provided a satisfying tip for our spears and a durable edge for our rik-ta blades. Also, and of no less importance, the forests granted yet another inestimable resource for our tribe, but none of greater worth than the tall and straight bennawood. This all-purpose tree offered numerous items of value, including poles to construct our tents, shafts for our spears, and supports for the hand-drawn conveyances we used for carrying belongings on our treks.

  Each day required myriad operations involving the acquisition and utilization of assets, all directed toward maintaining that slim margin between survival and oblivion. Of course, one survives only if fed. One of the main events of a busy workday was the preparation of the noontime meal. This meal held significance, for it was often the most substantial one, or the only one, depending on the abundance or scarcity of food at the time.

  Each family unit received a share of whatever was available that day. That included a portion of the daily kill along with something either recently gathered from field or forest or taken from our limited storage. The food for these meals varied, and consisted of the flesh of both plant and animal. The fruit of the wettle tree and a variety of tubers and nuts were staple foods, along with fish pulled from river waters, another important component of our diet.

  The mainstay of our existence, however, was the variety of beasts hunted by our men on the plains and in the forests, taken not only for food, but also for hides and bones and any other useful part. We worked the animal hides into leather, used their bladders to form our water skins, and shaped their bones to fashion the handles of our metal tools and knives.

  Our favorite animal to hunt was the porse, a shaggy-headed, ponderous creature with dark fur and a solid, bulky body. It was a one-horned, humped-back beast that roamed in grazing herds across the open plains. Nothing rivaled the fine texture and appetizing flavor of its meat when seasoned and then roasted to a fine delicacy on a spit over a bennawood fire.

  Hunters would approach these magnificent creatures as they fed, using whatever cover was available to get as close as they could without setting the animals to flight. Prone to panic at the slightest provocation, the herd would inevitably flee at some point, forcing the hunters to engage in a dangerous foot pursuit. Wary as they raced alongside the unpredictable, stampeding beasts, the hunters would toss their spears, attempting to land a lucky strike or force one to separate from the safety of its ranks.

  With that accomplished, they could then box in the lone porse from all sides. The confused animal would not know which hunter to face, and would wind up turning its ample body broadside to at least one. A well-aimed spear strike to its massive heart was sufficient to end its roaming ways. I watched these hunts as often as I could, for I was ever curious about the tactics involved in the taking of game. In truth, I envied the boys and men the obvious joy they took in these unpredictable and potentially lethal pursuits.

  One hunt I still remember with clarity, for I played a small part in it, though no one knows what I did, not even Lillatta, who was there. We were almost twelve, and as was our custom Lillatta, and I sneaked out of camp shortly after the hunters departed. We followed at a discreet distance, never allowing the men to see us, for discovery would mean slops disposal duty for a month, and that was most unpleasant. We planted ourselves in the thigh-high grass just below the crest of a hill that opened out onto a vast plain. We watched as the men, stripped down to their hunting togs and weapons, stealthily approached a small herd of porse.

  As they crept from one spiny thorel bush to another, a startled blue-tailed barster took flight. The herd was at once alert and wary, with several beasts vocalizing a warning of danger. I saw Bratar, the son of council chief Barkor, jump up in premature haste and race toward the porse. Most of the herd turned to flee, which forced the other hunters to give chase. One stubborn bull seemed annoyed by the hunters’ intrusion, gave a derisive snort, and then rotated to face the charging Bratar. Bratar stopped to shout a series of traditional challenges to his prey, and then ran toward it, his spear ready for the killing thrust. The porse seemed unmoved, snorted its mocking answer, and began to trot forward.

  Then, Bratar stumbled. An unseen shrub had caught his foot, and as he fell, his momentum caused him to strike the ground hard. The porse saw its opening and charged. Lillatta and I both let out a short exclamation of fear, for Bratar was lying still and seemed dazed. Lillatta could not watch and turned to flee down the hillside.

  I felt helpless, watching transfixed as the porse bore down, ready to trample Bratar into a bloody pile of flesh. Then, something flashed in my memory. In one of his lessons, my father had said something about me having the power to stop a wild beast in its tracks—but was that true? What was it he said to do? Why hadn’t I paid attention? I had n
o time to reason it out, for the porse was almost upon Bratar. Leaping to my feet, I stepped to the hilltop—and promptly tripped. I had fallen over the skeletal remains of a long dead animal half buried in the sod.

  As I lay in pain across the bones, I shouted out the only thing I could think to say.

  “PORSE, TURN AWAY!”

  In disbelief, I saw the porse pull up as if yanked by a rope. It stood there for a moment, just a few steps from Bratar’s prostrate form, seeming confused. After a brief look in every direction, it trotted off to join its companions.

  Again hidden behind the rise, I watched as Bratar regained his senses. His fellow hunters soon found their way back to him, and it became apparent as I observed the scene that they had not witnessed Bratar’s encounter. I had no idea what Bratar was telling them. Was he even aware of what had happened? For that matter, was I? What kind of magic was this that could cause a wild animal to turn from its path, and from a distance where it could not even have heard my voice? My father was an all-powerful shaman, and I felt certain even he could not control animals in this manner.

  So, how in the world could I?

  **

  ~~THREE~~