Sanyel, Page 3
Michael Puttonen
That night we held our traditional celebration for a week of successful hunts. They had indeed been good ones, with twenty porse and several spartok taken. The entire tribe gathered in a large plaza of tramped-down grass outside our tent village. Tonight we would enjoy roast porse, dancing, and music. Later, along with Lillatta and several other chosen women, I would help serve the men food and drink in the ceremonial tent. It was there the hunters would assemble to tell stories of the hunt. Being chosen to serve was a privilege, for this provided an opportunity to hear firsthand the often harrowing tales of the hunters’ encounters in the field. I never tired of that.
I felt it unnecessary to tell Lillatta about the porse and how my words had turned it away from trampling Bratar. I am certain she would not have believed me. Why would she, since I could not comprehend it myself? For the first time, though, I felt I had been taking too much for granted. I was now becoming aware of the magnitude of what my father was teaching me. So much power in a few simple words! What else was possible?
I would tell my father about the porse’s reaction to my words later. He was busy at present, preparing for tonight’s rituals. As for Lillatta, instead of telling her the truth, I told her I had fled, as she had done, and not seen what events transpired upon the plain.
That night, inside the massive tent, there was a bustling of activity and a steady murmur of voices in conversation. Several fires burned, causing shadows to dance on the mat-covered walls. Smoke found its escape through a square tent hole high above the gathering.
The ceremonial tent was always the largest of the tents constructed whenever we stopped for a hunt, normally a couple month stay. It matched the pyramid shape of our much smaller personal tents, though with a slightly different configuration. Family tents found support through four wood corner poles set apart and anchored to the ground, then angled to converge in the sky, and secured together at their peak with rope or strips of leather. A framework of smaller poles in a lattice pattern covered each of the four sides, with those then overlaid with hides or woven mats, leaving one small opening for an entrance. There was no opening in the top for venting, as with the ceremonial tent, for we built all personal fires outside. These cozy family tents were of various sizes, depending on the number of members they needed to accommodate.
The construction of the ceremonial tent differed in that the four corner support poles were massive in girth and length. They did not meet at the top, but instead stopped short of convergence at the four corners of a square-shaped, open vent that allowed for indoor cooking fires. Support beams also crisscrossed between the poles to add further integrity to this larger structure. The four-sided shape of Sakitan tents held symbolic significance in that they represented the four cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west, as well as the four natural elements of fire, earth, wind, and water.
The ceremony was about to begin. Several porse and a couple of spartok roasted over fires located off to one side. The sweet odor of bennawood and cooking meat wafted throughout the enclosure. The ten members of the tribal council, all clothed in green robes, sat on piled mats in a semi-circle before a small fire burning near the center of the tent. Dozens of men and boys in colorful garb sat across from the fire, facing the councilors. These tribesmen and boys had participated in this week’s hunt.
Hunters rotated in alternating assignments, and only those who had pursued game this particular week attended the ceremony. This week’s hunters had done well, and there would be much praise from the council. At these affairs, the paltry deeds of the lesser hunters would receive short and often humorous play, with the actions of the true heroes receiving a more extensive and appreciative acknowledgment. On this night, the councilmen would offer their individual analysis and criticism regarding the week’s performances in the field. It was an opportunity to guide and encourage the younger hunters and give approbation to all who warranted recognition. And although this night was for the hunters and the council only, the rest of the tribe would hear these tales repeated later.
As the hunters awaited their chance to speak, I stood with Lillatta and several other women behind a pair of rough-hewn bennawood tables. We all wore the traditional dress for this ceremony, a colorful, flowing garment extending to the ankles. The tabletops overflowed, laden with wettle fruit and an assortment of nuts and berries. Strong drink—from the juice of fermented wettle—was available to the adult hunters in several large bowls, along with water for those who did not imbibe. There were no younger children present, as tradition permitted no one under the age of eleven to attend this ritual.
Our job was to serve the men as they told their stories and to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. In the past, I had taken no offense to this, for this was our way. Lately, however, I had begun to resent the men’s needless disrespect. The prohibition against speaking to the men was fine, but they would often cuff us if we spilled drink or did not respond quickly enough to their demands. It was degrading, and I saw no point to it.
Often, while waiting for these ceremonies to begin, I would daydream I was off in the forest practicing with my weapons. We earned respect in our culture with the point of a spear, and I often fantasized about the glory of being a hunter and warrior. By Sakitan tradition, my female birthright limited me to acceptable roles, which included for the most part domestic duties and the bearing and caretaking of children. I wanted more. I knew with my skills that I could be a hunter, even a warrior. It should not be so inconceivable that a woman could do these things. Why was my father teaching me these skills if my tribe would not allow me to put them to use?
Nanki had risen and the night’s festivities were about to get underway. It was the medicine man’s responsibility to open the proceedings by offering a small gift (on this night a colored stone) to the sun god, Ra-ta, for the blessings of a satisfying hunt. My father lighted a small bundle of sargrass and the pungent odor soon wafted to my station. I will always love that odor, as I will forever associate it with my father, standing proud and powerful as he addressed the people, chanting the sacred words to connect us all to the spirit of Ra-ta. After acknowledging the sun god, my father waved the sargrass and thanked the spirits of the porse who had given up their lives to feed us this day. When he finished, council chief Barkor rose and grunted a few slurred greetings, for he was already well on his way to inebriation. Then, the story telling began.
The first up was a boy I did not know well. Even his name escaped me, although our tribe was not that large and I should certainly know everyone. I felt distracted, for my view kept shifting over to a boy sitting across from Barkor. I knew the boy was fifteen, but his build and height suggested otherwise. He had an overly muscled frame and a wide, square head, capped by a close-cut bristle of charcoal hair. He wore a food-stained crimson robe rimmed by a frayed, filthy collar. With his full jaw pushed out, his head naturally tilted upward in a royal air. He was not in the least attractive and appeared to be a stranger to soap and water as well. By his coarse manner toward the women, I gathered he had the same disposition as the man seated across from him.
This was Bratar, son of council chief Barkor and the boy whose life I had saved earlier that day. I was curious about what he would say regarding the day’s events, as he appeared eager to talk and seemed to be growing impatient with the current speaker’s rambling.
Several boring speakers later, I found out. Bratar stood, as was the custom, and faced the seated councilmen. With a brashness I found startling, he was soon regaling the crowd with a tale unrecognizable to me. If it could speak, the porse involved in this morning’s confrontation would probably have given a more honest version of the events. Unfortunately, he was now roasting in comfort on a spit to my left.
“The bull eyed me,” Bratar began, “and I knew I was in for a battle. I leaped up from cover and charged. The beast snorted, in fear I imagine, for I was on him like a flashing bolt from Rata. I aimed my spear d
irectly between his eyes. The flight bore true, but to my surprise, the beast raised his head at the last moment and the spear struck his horn and veered off to the right. I had only my rik-ta left, and I managed to leap over the bull’s horn and onto his back as he lowered his head to gore me. Swiftly, I raised my knife over his flank, seeking the heart. The porse reared and bucked. I rode him hard as he tried his best to throw me. I was tiring him out, but when about to thrust home my killing blow, I lost my grip and the porse tossed me to the ground. The fall dazed me, but I clearly remember glimpsing the beast turn and flee in terror. Then the others came up, and we learned later that the bull was taken down by another hunter, no doubt weakened by our heroic battle . . .”
While Bratar spewed this fantasy, with a bravado and arrogance that bordered on laughable, Barkor summoned me to bring him a bowl of spirits. As I approached Barkor from behind, I was aware of the rapt attention Bratar’s fiction was receiving from the younger hunters. Many of their faces reflected only envy and awe, and not a trace of doubt as to Bratar’s veracity. The older hunters smiled and I realized Bratar had duped them as well. Bratar was near the end of his speech, and Barkor beamed with pride as I handed the bowl to him.
I don’t know why I did it, but I felt someone had to challenge Bratar’s posturing. So, as Bratar spoke his last lying words, I burst out laughing. As unfortunate as that move was, I soon compounded it with another. For at that instant Barkor reached for the bowl. Our hands did not connect and the bowl’s contents spilled out, splashing onto his robe.
I knew I had made two stupid mistakes. The applause that had begun as Bratar finished speaking ceased. Silence held for an interminable moment and I felt every eye fixed to my form. The looks I received ran the gamut from disbelief to anger to fear—fear especially from Lillatta and the women. A drunken Barkor got to his feet. A fellow hunter braced him, preventing him from swaying forward into the central fire. He turned to face me.
“You!” he shouted, and then stumbled backwards. He gathered himself, came forward, and then swung his open hand with such force that my head whipped sideways from the blow. With my face stinging from the vicious slap, I brought my hand to my side to grab the rik-ta that lay hidden behind a fold in my garment. A firm hand grasped mine before anyone saw what I intended and an urgent voice whispered, “No!” It was my father holding my arm down, forcing me to stand there to face Barkor’s drunken wrath.
“You!” he shouted again. “How dare you speak when the stories are being told. How dare you desecrate thith—thiths sacred gathering, shaming our great hunter, Bratar.” Barkor teetered toward me, his foul, liquored breath causing me to flinch. Then, standing straighter, he turned to the others and spoke in a loud voice so all could hear.
“No female is to speak during the telling of the stories. It is our law.”
Barkor had to steady himself yet again, and then he offered up a slur not often heard, one that disparages both one’s ancestry and mental capacity.
“This clumsy selate has dishonored our ceremony by not only speaking, but spilling drink during a brave hunter’s words.”
Turning again to me, Barkor swayed and then spat on the ground inches from where I stood and said, “Get out! I ban you from these affairs. Never again will you set foot in this place! I have spoken.”
Barkor slumped back down and demanded another bowl of spirits from the frightened servers.
The words stung worse than Barkor’s slap. I had just received permanent banishment from the most important celebration of our tribe. As much as I detested the relegation of women to servant status at these services, I still felt the pride we all felt at participating in this sacred ritual. I was stunned.
I had not foreseen banishment, and my surprise soon turned to resentment—then anger. Idiots! Bratar had fed them porse dung and they had eaten it right up. And I’m the one being ridiculed—and punished? I was furious and about to open my mouth again when my father ushered me out of the tent. I glanced around as I departed and could find no sympathetic face. I sought out Lillatta, but did not see her. Bratar, however, who had remained standing after his story, glared at me as I left, and the look on his brutish face was ugly.
As the revelry continued in the big tent, I accompanied my father to our own. Our dwelling stood among a group situated on the outer edge of the community, for my father often took night walks and preferred to do so without disturbing others. Many times I have woken in the night to find him some distance from the encampment, just staring at the canopy of brilliant lights flickering in the sky. He would often muse as to their nature, and had even named some of them. At different times of the year the lights were in different positions, which puzzled my father. And Numa and Nima, the twin moons that swiftly traversed the sky at night, were objects of endless fascination and conjecture.
We Sakita arranged our tents in no particular pattern, with their location dependent on personal preference. The only constant was the ceremonial tent, which always occupied the central area of our encampment, with all other tents positioned around it at varying distances. At our tent, located on the edge of the cluster, Nanki had gathered some twigs and soon had a robust fire going. I joined him sitting on the ground, and as he poked the flames, I noticed the deep lines that had grown in his countenance and the thinness of his white hair so clearly defined by the fire’s glow.
I knew my father was old, but I had not paid attention to how thoroughly the years had ravaged him. My birth had occurred when he was already well past the age of most new fathers, and in the years that followed his hair had gone from gray to white. My mother, Brisa, had been much younger than Nanki when they married, and although separated by a vast age difference, it had apparently not dampened their feelings for each other. People say there was a genuine love between them.
I often fantasized about my mother, wondering what my life would have been like if I had known her. My father spoke of her beauty and proud bearing, and of the humor that would come like a ray from Ra-ta whenever he sorely needed cheering. I know he missed her. Several times I caught him tossing a persun flower into the river Raso. It was a ritual for the departed, and the sadness I felt in him at those times broke my heart.
My father began to speak.
“Sanyel, my child, I have failed you. I was a fool! I put you in danger by defying the council and now they have reason to keep you in their sights. Before, at least, you were invisible to them, but now that has all changed. I am such a fool!”
“No, father, please do not blame yourself. It was my fault. I chose to expose the pompous Bratar. I was not thinking clearly. I just could not bear to watch him deceive them like that.”
My father seemed not to hear, distracted for a moment by his own troubled thoughts. Then, realizing what I had said, he turned to me. “What’s that, San? What are you saying? How would you know if Bratar’s words were deceitful?”
He saw my distressed look and spoke again before I could answer.
“Oh, don’t worry. I already know you sneak off with Lillatta. I know you two follow the hunters. I have never seen the harm in it and it honestly doesn’t concern me. What matters is that you understand there is a real danger now. Not only to you and to me, but to Lillatta as well. We will have to be even more careful. Bratar will not forget that you interrupted his story, for that is a terrible humiliation. You saw the crowd’s reaction to Bratar. He will be their favorite now and you will be little more than the dung clinging to his shoe. You are a female, my child. Do not forget that. Wrong as it may be, no one cares to hear what a female has to say and you have no rights under our laws. You must be more cautious, for there are those among us who would be eager to see me taken down, and perhaps even you, the shaman’s daughter.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said with a careless confidence. I pictured what I would do if Bratar and his kind tried me. My rik-ta would teach them a lesson.
/> “You must listen,” Nanki persisted. “I have been training you in all things necessary to practice as a shaman, and I have told you the reason. While I know my stubbornness in pursuing this has put you in danger, I cannot go back and change things. I had hoped by now that I could ease our people into recognizing that a woman as shaman would be acceptable. Yet I see no change in them. Their attitudes are just as rigid as on the day you were born. So I must make you truly understand the power you possess. For it is you who will have to confront them in the end. Look at this bracelet of bones.”
He pointed to a bracelet that encircled my wrist, an adornment he had given me long ago.
“A dream showed me how to make this bracelet and also its purpose. It was shortly after you were born, and the dream informed me of the bracelet's connection to you. I told you once, when you were younger, the significance of this bracelet, but did not go into details. Now, I must. This bracelet contains small bone fragments from a variety of creatures. I had one of our artisans ground the fragments down and shape them into animal images, each representing its particular bone. That way you can quickly determine which one you’ll need for the purpose I will now describe. By wearing this, you have power over the animals. If you need a favor from one, all you need to do is touch its bone with your fingers and instruct the creature. The animal must be within your sight for this to work. The animal will hear you, even if out of range, as long as you can see it. However, you must remember that the bracelet has to be around your wrist for the power to work, and you must touch the creature’s bone. Do you remember the young can-rak that came to you in a meditation? I knew then that this bracelet of bones would be your power, for the can-rak is the master of all animals, and so shall you be.”
At this point I interrupted my father and excitedly told him what I had done earlier that day, causing the porse to turn from trampling Bratar.
“Excellent!” said an exultant Nanki. “You see how it works!” Then my father’s eyebrows lifted in a puzzled expression. “But how did you get the porse to obey you? I know there is a porse bone on your bracelet, but I also know I never told you that you had to touch it to make the porse respond.”
At first that puzzled me also, but then I remembered. “I tripped over some old bones and had my hand on them when I called out the words.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
My father surmised that the old bones I had tripped over had to be those of a porse. It appeared to him that as long as I had a porse bone on my wrist bracelet, any other porse bone I touched would suffice in allowing me to command the animal.
“I tried to make the power work for myself but could not,” my father continued. “It seems I am allowed control over only one creature, and that is my spirit animal, the sartel. This bracelet is for you only, Sanyel. You have seen the magic at work, so please understand that this power comes with a great responsibility. It is a gift from Ra-ta, and that is a rare gift to any. There is evil in this world and those who have the power must combat it whenever they can.”
“I will do my best, father,” I said in earnest.
Nanki smiled a sad smile. He cupped his hand beneath my chin and said, “I know you will, my beautiful child. I have believed all along that you are the prophesied one and I have tried to prepare you the best I can. Your powers will only grow stronger and you will far surpass my accomplishments; this, my dreams have told me. Your mother gave our people and me the greatest gift when she gave birth to you. I wish she could see what a wonderful person you have become.”
Then, my father drew me in a tight embrace and with a fierce whisper said, “Know that you are everything to me, Sanyel. I love you with all my heart.”
The unexpected show of affection surprised me, being rare. Content in the moment, I rested my head upon my father’s chest. With one arm encircling me, he used his other to stroke my hair, and then he began to sing a song about the vagaries of a nomad’s life. As he sang, I tried to wrap my mind around all this prophecy stuff. What did it all mean?
Feeling drowsy, I closed my eyes.
Before sleep came, I thought I heard the distant call of a can-rak.
**
~~FOUR~~
I felt it unnecessary to tell Lillatta about the porse and how my words had turned it away from trampling Bratar. I am certain she would not have believed me. Why would she, since I could not comprehend it myself? For the first time, though, I felt I had been taking too much for granted. I was now becoming aware of the magnitude of what my father was teaching me. So much power in a few simple words! What else was possible?
I would tell my father about the porse’s reaction to my words later. He was busy at present, preparing for tonight’s rituals. As for Lillatta, instead of telling her the truth, I told her I had fled, as she had done, and not seen what events transpired upon the plain.
That night, inside the massive tent, there was a bustling of activity and a steady murmur of voices in conversation. Several fires burned, causing shadows to dance on the mat-covered walls. Smoke found its escape through a square tent hole high above the gathering.
The ceremonial tent was always the largest of the tents constructed whenever we stopped for a hunt, normally a couple month stay. It matched the pyramid shape of our much smaller personal tents, though with a slightly different configuration. Family tents found support through four wood corner poles set apart and anchored to the ground, then angled to converge in the sky, and secured together at their peak with rope or strips of leather. A framework of smaller poles in a lattice pattern covered each of the four sides, with those then overlaid with hides or woven mats, leaving one small opening for an entrance. There was no opening in the top for venting, as with the ceremonial tent, for we built all personal fires outside. These cozy family tents were of various sizes, depending on the number of members they needed to accommodate.
The construction of the ceremonial tent differed in that the four corner support poles were massive in girth and length. They did not meet at the top, but instead stopped short of convergence at the four corners of a square-shaped, open vent that allowed for indoor cooking fires. Support beams also crisscrossed between the poles to add further integrity to this larger structure. The four-sided shape of Sakitan tents held symbolic significance in that they represented the four cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west, as well as the four natural elements of fire, earth, wind, and water.
The ceremony was about to begin. Several porse and a couple of spartok roasted over fires located off to one side. The sweet odor of bennawood and cooking meat wafted throughout the enclosure. The ten members of the tribal council, all clothed in green robes, sat on piled mats in a semi-circle before a small fire burning near the center of the tent. Dozens of men and boys in colorful garb sat across from the fire, facing the councilors. These tribesmen and boys had participated in this week’s hunt.
Hunters rotated in alternating assignments, and only those who had pursued game this particular week attended the ceremony. This week’s hunters had done well, and there would be much praise from the council. At these affairs, the paltry deeds of the lesser hunters would receive short and often humorous play, with the actions of the true heroes receiving a more extensive and appreciative acknowledgment. On this night, the councilmen would offer their individual analysis and criticism regarding the week’s performances in the field. It was an opportunity to guide and encourage the younger hunters and give approbation to all who warranted recognition. And although this night was for the hunters and the council only, the rest of the tribe would hear these tales repeated later.
As the hunters awaited their chance to speak, I stood with Lillatta and several other women behind a pair of rough-hewn bennawood tables. We all wore the traditional dress for this ceremony, a colorful, flowing garment extending to the ankles. The tabletops overflowed, laden with wettle fruit and an assortment of nuts and berries. Strong drink—from the juice of fermented wettle—was available to the adult hunters in several large bowls, along with water for those who did not imbibe. There were no younger children present, as tradition permitted no one under the age of eleven to attend this ritual.
Our job was to serve the men as they told their stories and to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. In the past, I had taken no offense to this, for this was our way. Lately, however, I had begun to resent the men’s needless disrespect. The prohibition against speaking to the men was fine, but they would often cuff us if we spilled drink or did not respond quickly enough to their demands. It was degrading, and I saw no point to it.
Often, while waiting for these ceremonies to begin, I would daydream I was off in the forest practicing with my weapons. We earned respect in our culture with the point of a spear, and I often fantasized about the glory of being a hunter and warrior. By Sakitan tradition, my female birthright limited me to acceptable roles, which included for the most part domestic duties and the bearing and caretaking of children. I wanted more. I knew with my skills that I could be a hunter, even a warrior. It should not be so inconceivable that a woman could do these things. Why was my father teaching me these skills if my tribe would not allow me to put them to use?
Nanki had risen and the night’s festivities were about to get underway. It was the medicine man’s responsibility to open the proceedings by offering a small gift (on this night a colored stone) to the sun god, Ra-ta, for the blessings of a satisfying hunt. My father lighted a small bundle of sargrass and the pungent odor soon wafted to my station. I will always love that odor, as I will forever associate it with my father, standing proud and powerful as he addressed the people, chanting the sacred words to connect us all to the spirit of Ra-ta. After acknowledging the sun god, my father waved the sargrass and thanked the spirits of the porse who had given up their lives to feed us this day. When he finished, council chief Barkor rose and grunted a few slurred greetings, for he was already well on his way to inebriation. Then, the story telling began.
The first up was a boy I did not know well. Even his name escaped me, although our tribe was not that large and I should certainly know everyone. I felt distracted, for my view kept shifting over to a boy sitting across from Barkor. I knew the boy was fifteen, but his build and height suggested otherwise. He had an overly muscled frame and a wide, square head, capped by a close-cut bristle of charcoal hair. He wore a food-stained crimson robe rimmed by a frayed, filthy collar. With his full jaw pushed out, his head naturally tilted upward in a royal air. He was not in the least attractive and appeared to be a stranger to soap and water as well. By his coarse manner toward the women, I gathered he had the same disposition as the man seated across from him.
This was Bratar, son of council chief Barkor and the boy whose life I had saved earlier that day. I was curious about what he would say regarding the day’s events, as he appeared eager to talk and seemed to be growing impatient with the current speaker’s rambling.
Several boring speakers later, I found out. Bratar stood, as was the custom, and faced the seated councilmen. With a brashness I found startling, he was soon regaling the crowd with a tale unrecognizable to me. If it could speak, the porse involved in this morning’s confrontation would probably have given a more honest version of the events. Unfortunately, he was now roasting in comfort on a spit to my left.
“The bull eyed me,” Bratar began, “and I knew I was in for a battle. I leaped up from cover and charged. The beast snorted, in fear I imagine, for I was on him like a flashing bolt from Rata. I aimed my spear d
irectly between his eyes. The flight bore true, but to my surprise, the beast raised his head at the last moment and the spear struck his horn and veered off to the right. I had only my rik-ta left, and I managed to leap over the bull’s horn and onto his back as he lowered his head to gore me. Swiftly, I raised my knife over his flank, seeking the heart. The porse reared and bucked. I rode him hard as he tried his best to throw me. I was tiring him out, but when about to thrust home my killing blow, I lost my grip and the porse tossed me to the ground. The fall dazed me, but I clearly remember glimpsing the beast turn and flee in terror. Then the others came up, and we learned later that the bull was taken down by another hunter, no doubt weakened by our heroic battle . . .”
While Bratar spewed this fantasy, with a bravado and arrogance that bordered on laughable, Barkor summoned me to bring him a bowl of spirits. As I approached Barkor from behind, I was aware of the rapt attention Bratar’s fiction was receiving from the younger hunters. Many of their faces reflected only envy and awe, and not a trace of doubt as to Bratar’s veracity. The older hunters smiled and I realized Bratar had duped them as well. Bratar was near the end of his speech, and Barkor beamed with pride as I handed the bowl to him.
I don’t know why I did it, but I felt someone had to challenge Bratar’s posturing. So, as Bratar spoke his last lying words, I burst out laughing. As unfortunate as that move was, I soon compounded it with another. For at that instant Barkor reached for the bowl. Our hands did not connect and the bowl’s contents spilled out, splashing onto his robe.
I knew I had made two stupid mistakes. The applause that had begun as Bratar finished speaking ceased. Silence held for an interminable moment and I felt every eye fixed to my form. The looks I received ran the gamut from disbelief to anger to fear—fear especially from Lillatta and the women. A drunken Barkor got to his feet. A fellow hunter braced him, preventing him from swaying forward into the central fire. He turned to face me.
“You!” he shouted, and then stumbled backwards. He gathered himself, came forward, and then swung his open hand with such force that my head whipped sideways from the blow. With my face stinging from the vicious slap, I brought my hand to my side to grab the rik-ta that lay hidden behind a fold in my garment. A firm hand grasped mine before anyone saw what I intended and an urgent voice whispered, “No!” It was my father holding my arm down, forcing me to stand there to face Barkor’s drunken wrath.
“You!” he shouted again. “How dare you speak when the stories are being told. How dare you desecrate thith—thiths sacred gathering, shaming our great hunter, Bratar.” Barkor teetered toward me, his foul, liquored breath causing me to flinch. Then, standing straighter, he turned to the others and spoke in a loud voice so all could hear.
“No female is to speak during the telling of the stories. It is our law.”
Barkor had to steady himself yet again, and then he offered up a slur not often heard, one that disparages both one’s ancestry and mental capacity.
“This clumsy selate has dishonored our ceremony by not only speaking, but spilling drink during a brave hunter’s words.”
Turning again to me, Barkor swayed and then spat on the ground inches from where I stood and said, “Get out! I ban you from these affairs. Never again will you set foot in this place! I have spoken.”
Barkor slumped back down and demanded another bowl of spirits from the frightened servers.
The words stung worse than Barkor’s slap. I had just received permanent banishment from the most important celebration of our tribe. As much as I detested the relegation of women to servant status at these services, I still felt the pride we all felt at participating in this sacred ritual. I was stunned.
I had not foreseen banishment, and my surprise soon turned to resentment—then anger. Idiots! Bratar had fed them porse dung and they had eaten it right up. And I’m the one being ridiculed—and punished? I was furious and about to open my mouth again when my father ushered me out of the tent. I glanced around as I departed and could find no sympathetic face. I sought out Lillatta, but did not see her. Bratar, however, who had remained standing after his story, glared at me as I left, and the look on his brutish face was ugly.
As the revelry continued in the big tent, I accompanied my father to our own. Our dwelling stood among a group situated on the outer edge of the community, for my father often took night walks and preferred to do so without disturbing others. Many times I have woken in the night to find him some distance from the encampment, just staring at the canopy of brilliant lights flickering in the sky. He would often muse as to their nature, and had even named some of them. At different times of the year the lights were in different positions, which puzzled my father. And Numa and Nima, the twin moons that swiftly traversed the sky at night, were objects of endless fascination and conjecture.
We Sakita arranged our tents in no particular pattern, with their location dependent on personal preference. The only constant was the ceremonial tent, which always occupied the central area of our encampment, with all other tents positioned around it at varying distances. At our tent, located on the edge of the cluster, Nanki had gathered some twigs and soon had a robust fire going. I joined him sitting on the ground, and as he poked the flames, I noticed the deep lines that had grown in his countenance and the thinness of his white hair so clearly defined by the fire’s glow.
I knew my father was old, but I had not paid attention to how thoroughly the years had ravaged him. My birth had occurred when he was already well past the age of most new fathers, and in the years that followed his hair had gone from gray to white. My mother, Brisa, had been much younger than Nanki when they married, and although separated by a vast age difference, it had apparently not dampened their feelings for each other. People say there was a genuine love between them.
I often fantasized about my mother, wondering what my life would have been like if I had known her. My father spoke of her beauty and proud bearing, and of the humor that would come like a ray from Ra-ta whenever he sorely needed cheering. I know he missed her. Several times I caught him tossing a persun flower into the river Raso. It was a ritual for the departed, and the sadness I felt in him at those times broke my heart.
My father began to speak.
“Sanyel, my child, I have failed you. I was a fool! I put you in danger by defying the council and now they have reason to keep you in their sights. Before, at least, you were invisible to them, but now that has all changed. I am such a fool!”
“No, father, please do not blame yourself. It was my fault. I chose to expose the pompous Bratar. I was not thinking clearly. I just could not bear to watch him deceive them like that.”
My father seemed not to hear, distracted for a moment by his own troubled thoughts. Then, realizing what I had said, he turned to me. “What’s that, San? What are you saying? How would you know if Bratar’s words were deceitful?”
He saw my distressed look and spoke again before I could answer.
“Oh, don’t worry. I already know you sneak off with Lillatta. I know you two follow the hunters. I have never seen the harm in it and it honestly doesn’t concern me. What matters is that you understand there is a real danger now. Not only to you and to me, but to Lillatta as well. We will have to be even more careful. Bratar will not forget that you interrupted his story, for that is a terrible humiliation. You saw the crowd’s reaction to Bratar. He will be their favorite now and you will be little more than the dung clinging to his shoe. You are a female, my child. Do not forget that. Wrong as it may be, no one cares to hear what a female has to say and you have no rights under our laws. You must be more cautious, for there are those among us who would be eager to see me taken down, and perhaps even you, the shaman’s daughter.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said with a careless confidence. I pictured what I would do if Bratar and his kind tried me. My rik-ta would teach them a lesson.
/> “You must listen,” Nanki persisted. “I have been training you in all things necessary to practice as a shaman, and I have told you the reason. While I know my stubbornness in pursuing this has put you in danger, I cannot go back and change things. I had hoped by now that I could ease our people into recognizing that a woman as shaman would be acceptable. Yet I see no change in them. Their attitudes are just as rigid as on the day you were born. So I must make you truly understand the power you possess. For it is you who will have to confront them in the end. Look at this bracelet of bones.”
He pointed to a bracelet that encircled my wrist, an adornment he had given me long ago.
“A dream showed me how to make this bracelet and also its purpose. It was shortly after you were born, and the dream informed me of the bracelet's connection to you. I told you once, when you were younger, the significance of this bracelet, but did not go into details. Now, I must. This bracelet contains small bone fragments from a variety of creatures. I had one of our artisans ground the fragments down and shape them into animal images, each representing its particular bone. That way you can quickly determine which one you’ll need for the purpose I will now describe. By wearing this, you have power over the animals. If you need a favor from one, all you need to do is touch its bone with your fingers and instruct the creature. The animal must be within your sight for this to work. The animal will hear you, even if out of range, as long as you can see it. However, you must remember that the bracelet has to be around your wrist for the power to work, and you must touch the creature’s bone. Do you remember the young can-rak that came to you in a meditation? I knew then that this bracelet of bones would be your power, for the can-rak is the master of all animals, and so shall you be.”
At this point I interrupted my father and excitedly told him what I had done earlier that day, causing the porse to turn from trampling Bratar.
“Excellent!” said an exultant Nanki. “You see how it works!” Then my father’s eyebrows lifted in a puzzled expression. “But how did you get the porse to obey you? I know there is a porse bone on your bracelet, but I also know I never told you that you had to touch it to make the porse respond.”
At first that puzzled me also, but then I remembered. “I tripped over some old bones and had my hand on them when I called out the words.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
My father surmised that the old bones I had tripped over had to be those of a porse. It appeared to him that as long as I had a porse bone on my wrist bracelet, any other porse bone I touched would suffice in allowing me to command the animal.
“I tried to make the power work for myself but could not,” my father continued. “It seems I am allowed control over only one creature, and that is my spirit animal, the sartel. This bracelet is for you only, Sanyel. You have seen the magic at work, so please understand that this power comes with a great responsibility. It is a gift from Ra-ta, and that is a rare gift to any. There is evil in this world and those who have the power must combat it whenever they can.”
“I will do my best, father,” I said in earnest.
Nanki smiled a sad smile. He cupped his hand beneath my chin and said, “I know you will, my beautiful child. I have believed all along that you are the prophesied one and I have tried to prepare you the best I can. Your powers will only grow stronger and you will far surpass my accomplishments; this, my dreams have told me. Your mother gave our people and me the greatest gift when she gave birth to you. I wish she could see what a wonderful person you have become.”
Then, my father drew me in a tight embrace and with a fierce whisper said, “Know that you are everything to me, Sanyel. I love you with all my heart.”
The unexpected show of affection surprised me, being rare. Content in the moment, I rested my head upon my father’s chest. With one arm encircling me, he used his other to stroke my hair, and then he began to sing a song about the vagaries of a nomad’s life. As he sang, I tried to wrap my mind around all this prophecy stuff. What did it all mean?
Feeling drowsy, I closed my eyes.
Before sleep came, I thought I heard the distant call of a can-rak.
**
~~FOUR~~
