My father was dying. He could barely rise from his bed and I spent much of my time minding his needs. I had just turned fifteen when the degree of his deterioration could no longer go untended. He had acquired a cough and walking became a chore, with his ragged breathing disabling him after only a few steps. More than once I saw him sitting upon the ground, gathering himself as he wheezed and coughed up blood. My emotions were in turmoil as I watched this rock, this white-capped mountain of a man, reduced to an insignificant pebble. He was helpless against a foe that carried no spear, a foe that tormented with no fear of reprisal.
The healer could not heal himself. He had tried. Oh, how he had tried. However, this was not a broken arm, not a cut to the flesh. It was the whole of the body in slow decay. His sight had diminished, his hearing was unreliable, his bowels unpredictable. The worst was hearing his soft crying in the night. He knew his time was up and that Ra-ta was preparing to take him. He feared. Not for himself or for where he was going, but for me. Ever since my birth, he had dedicated his entire focus to seeing me recognized as the one born to save our tribe. From what, he still knew not. Now he was about to leave me, to leave me alone among the unbelievers, alone to face a destiny he felt would be harsh and soul testing.
One morning, as I prepared a cold meal, I heard him cough and feared I must have awakened him. My father went in and out of consciousness and at times I expected the worst, only to see him rally to resist Ra-ta’s final embrace. He was rarely lucid these days, but when he was we spoke of many things. Today he was trying to sit up from his bedding but could not, and as he stared up and then around at the tent walls he seemed confused. His face was pale and worn, and over weeks of being bedridden, his body had shriveled like a flower denied the morning dew.
He saw me then and his eyes brightened, and I knew his mind was clear.
“Come, Sanyel.” The words came out in a croak. Nanki pursed his lips, trying to force his dry mouth to secrete some fluid so he could swallow and continue speaking.
“Here, father, drink this.” I brought over a water skin and he drank gratefully, with the cool liquid spilling in generous overflow from his mouth.
With my father hydrated to his satisfaction, he waved away the water vessel and indicated he wished to speak.
“I have not told you a great deal about your mother, and it has always been my desire to do so,” he began in a hoarse, but steady voice. “She was a beautiful woman, blond like you, and with your same green eyes. I pursued her from the moment I found out she could make my heart sing songs it had never known, and I felt lucky when she chose me over all her other suitors—for she certainly had many.”
Nanki chuckled, and then he discharged a ragged cough, but quickly recovered to continue.
“Brisa had a way of making everyone welcome her presence. She could make you laugh with just a gesture or a movement on her face, or a comment so hilarious that even that humorless Barkor might crack a smile, though that might be stretching things.”
My father paused, and then he said something that shocked me. “Did you know your mother was part Raab?”
He saw my expression and his eyes twinkled.
“That’s right, a ruthless, murdering Raab.” He laughed. “Of course she was nothing like that. In fact, I think you’ll find people are rarely as bad as you think they are. Her grandfather was a Raab, captured by our tribe as a boy, much like Lillatta’s suitor, Kalor. He married a Sakita woman, your great grandmother.”
As I let that startling revelation sink in, my father continued speaking.
“I truly wish you could have known your mother for even a short while. There are so many things only a woman can teach a daughter, and I know nothing of such things.”
My father abruptly stopped, and then he reached out to grab my hand. There was a pained look in his eyes and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. He spoke now in a voice hoarse with regret.
“I am so sorry. I tried to save her. I tried everything.”
Hearing the anguish in my father’s voice was difficult, for I had rarely heard him express such raw emotion.
“If she had lived, I know she would have argued against what I have done to you. I took away your childhood, your chance to grow up free with other children, to laugh and play. All because of ego. I never asked you if you were willing to do the things I demanded of you, to take the risks to which I have subjected you. Please forgive the arrogance of a selfish old man.”
My father's words took me aback. I had never had any misgivings over the path my life had taken.
“Father, please put your remorse aside. I have no regrets. I enjoyed every moment of our time together. Most fathers would never have given a daughter this kind of attention. I am sure every daughter in our tribe would envy the opportunity to do what I have done, to have had so many adventures with her father. So do not trouble yourself over imaginary wrongs. I was more than willing to follow you wherever you wished to lead me.”
I reached for a veined hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I love you, father.”
Nanki broke down and began to weep. His body shook, wracked with sobs as his eyes seeped unashamed. My tears soon joined his. Emotion released with a flow as deep and powerful as the river Raso, for we held nothing back any longer. We both knew our time together was ending. I climbed in next to my father and held his frail body. The closeness I felt to him I would never feel again. My father died the next day.
Nanki’s funeral took place upon the same hill where the tribe had cremated my mother years before. It was odd, the coincidence of my father dying near that very campsite, the place where I was born and where my mother perished giving me life. Knowing this, it was my father’s final wish to ascend to Ra-ta from that hill and have his ashes mix with hers.
It was early morning and cool. The rising sun warmed me, perhaps a gentle touch from Ra-ta to comfort me on this sorrowful day. The hill, as Gorsek’s had, overlooked the Raso. I gazed down at the glinting water, scrambling and pushing its way downstream, hurrying to get somewhere that was not here, this place of pain and suffering. I was in no such hurry. I had studied the hill the day before, looking for some trace of my mother’s presence. There was none. The grass hid nothing. There was no sign, not even a charred timber. Nature had groomed the site for years, wiping away all reminders, accepting the ash back into the soil. The flowers bloomed and the grass grew—and no remnant of my mother existed any more in this world.
Tribal members gathered, gradually making their way up the slope. Lillatta stood by my side, but might as well have been invisible. A mournful drum sounded. The beats thumped loudly in a slow rhythm, but I heard nothing. My father’s body looked small, wrapped in his white shroud and lying still upon the wooden bier. I knew he could not feel Ra-ta’s rays upon him, but I hoped his spirit was feeling their warmth in Mimnon. Pilkin, the oldest of my father’s apprentices approached, and I dutifully followed him to the platform. He mouthed some words and I hoped he got them right. I held the torch and lit the oil-soaked bundles. I watched the flames leap and for an instant wanted to grab them back, to undo the act that would take my father from me forever. Instead, I stood rooted and silent. I could not cry. I was empty and without form. A light breeze would have blown me away and I would have scattered into nothing. The fire reached my father and the black smoke obscured my view. I turned away and walked down the hill.
The death of a shaman is no small thing, for his role in the community is unique and pervasive. The medicine man is not only a healer, but also the one who presides over every minor and major tribal event. He is a witness to the first cry at birth, to the joy of a couple’s first wedding kiss, and to the poignant drama of a last farewell. The shaman is friend and father, confessor and confidant. He is the intermediary between the physical and spiritual worlds, the one chosen as Ra-ta’s interpreter.
My father’s death granted an opportunity for another to take
on that role. One of the apprentices would ascend to his position of power and authority, and age did not matter. What mattered was preparation. Now you might wonder if the wisdom and knowledge of a man such as Nanki, a shaman of many years' experience, becomes lost at his death. That is not the case. Knowledge is never lost. Spirit retains all. My father’s accumulated learning still resides with him in spirit, and that information remains accessible. The spirits of the ancestors, by the grace of Ra-ta, continuously and willingly offer their wisdom and assistance to the tribe, although the value of that assistance is dependent upon the proficiency of the current shaman. And the level of proficiency a shaman can reach is dependent upon how well the shaman has mastered the rituals required to get spirit’s attention.
The apprentice, by the time he has spent at least three years with his teacher, must know these basics by heart. He must know the proper notes of the sacred songs and chants and their sequence for every ceremony. He must know the correct steps of every dance. If performed properly, access to the ancestors’ knowledge and to Ra-ta’s guiding wisdom remains uninterrupted by a change in intermediary.
Every attempt to seek the insight of the spirits requires an offering, anything from a shining stone to a portion of animal fat to a wedge of fruit. Spirit accepts or rejects the offering based on how accurately the shaman performs the sacred rites. If the execution proves adequate, then the answers sought will come in swift order to the medicine man, perhaps in dreams during sleep or in lucid visions while awake, most often delivered by the shaman’s spirit animal.
The tribal council deemed several candidates among my father’s apprentices worthy of competing for the shaman position. Satu, the boy with the crippled leg, was a surprising addition, but I knew he had grasped my father’s teachings as if by osmosis. He was the youngest of the four selected, but had impressed several on the tribal council with his poise and confidence. Pilkin, the apprentice who had presided over my father’s funeral, was another candidate. Pilkin was much older, in his mid-thirties, and had been an apprentice for over ten years. My father had chosen him only as a favor to the man married to Pilkin's mother, a favor to a dying friend. He had never been a favorite of my father’s.
A shaman chooses an apprentice at his discretion. He can choose anyone, and age is not a consideration. Thus, apprentices might range in age from young boys to adult men, and their number is never static due to a variety of reasons. Some die in pursuit of wild game, as most are hunters. Others might perish from disease, accident, or battle. Some decide the path of the shaman is not for them and opt out, which is their choice. Thus the apprentice ranks, at any one time, consist of men and boys of various ages and degrees of proficiency, with some younger ones more advanced than those older apprentices who came into the program later.
The four selected for consideration this day were the only current apprentices to have acquired their spirit animals. To have one was a necessity to be shaman. They would hold these proceedings outdoors and I was thankful for that, as my banishment from the ceremonial tent was still in effect. I had been listless in the two days following my father’s funeral and had even skipped doing my required chores. I felt lost and unfocused without my mentor, but the rare choosing of a shaman was about to occur, and that piqued my curiosity.
Ten council members sat upon a long bench before an area of tramped-down grass at the outskirts of our tent city. The entire tribe occupied two sides of this expanse. They sat on extended benches that ascended and stretched back ten deep, with the shaman candidates standing in the center facing the council.
“You would be an interesting choice,” Semral was saying to Satu. The great hunter had fully recovered from his grievous wounds and looked to be in fine health. He was second in command to council chief Barkor and was assisting in the selection process. He continued addressing Satu, saying, “Your body denies you the joy of the hunt, but your mind is keen and undamaged and has much to offer.”
Barkor gave an audible grunt to signal his disagreement. He was sober for a change, a condition that was exceedingly rare these days. This was important work, however, selecting a medicine man, and I’m sure he was aware of the focus required. From my father’s encounters with the council chief, I knew Barkor was looking for a candidate he could manage. A shaman under his control would be of immeasurable value. Nanki had not been cooperative in following Barkor’s desires, so a chance to appoint a boy or man easily manipulated was a rare opportunity.
“We should not be hasty in our deliberation,” Barkor spoke, addressing his fellow councilors, “but I believe one candidate superior to the others. Satu appears to be an adequate choice, but is not Pilkin worthier of the honor? He has demonstrated he understands the requirements and shows a fine skill in the basics.”
Barkor then showed his prejudice against Satu by saying, “And besides, Pilkin is a hunter. Is it not our desire to have a shaman who truly understands our way of life, who participates in it? I know two of the other candidates hunt as well, but they have not shown the growth necessary to be shaman and we must eliminate them from consideration. The fourth does not even hunt—cannot even hunt.”
“It is through no fault of the boy,” Semral countered. “There are others among us who can no longer hunt, but we do not dismiss their value to us. I do not see how hunting or not hunting makes Satu less qualified.”
I sensed Barkor's displeasure with Semral’s challenge to his biased argument. His face barely disguised his annoyance that Pilkin was not already shaman. I found out later that Pilkin and Barkor had made an arrangement. Barkor would do what it took to ensure Pilkin’s ascendance as the next shaman, and in return would get Pilkin’s full support in anything that coincided with Barkor’s interests.
“We will vote,” Barkor said. The ten councilors raised hands in support of one candidate or the other. When the votes were in it was a tie, five for each. Barkor, seeing his efforts to get Pilkin a majority temporarily thwarted, invoked a rule that allowed the candidates to prove their worthiness by demonstrating control over their spirit animals.
I knew that a competent shaman must have complete control over his animal, for that would ensure a smooth communication between the spirit and physical worlds. This test would determine if the candidates met that requirement. The two competitors would bring their spirit animal representatives—live animals—to the committee and show through mastery of the shaman’s skills that they could persuade their animal to accomplish some task. The candidates could not issue verbal commands or use hand signals (this was to make certain the candidates were not using trained animals). The two must perform only rituals and employ mental commands to impel the animals to do their bidding. This made me sit up and take notice, for it reminded me that my control over the can-rak seemed independent of performing any ritual, though my father could control his animal, the sartel, only through that means. It seems that was also the case for all previous medicine men.
My spirit animal, the can-rak, had come to me at a young age, but I gathered most apprentices never received one at all, or they came only after years of rigorous training. The idea that one had attached itself to a female, and that this female needed no rituals to control it, I knew would trigger incomprehension, derision, and most likely fear if known by others. Still, I had proved that the spiritual was not the exclusive domain of men. Ra-ta must have a sense of humor, for if men thought only they controlled this power, the joke was on them.
Satu’s spirit animal was the razok, a magnificent bird of prey. Pilkin’s was the lowly starfen. The starfen sat in a cage, and Pilkin seemed embarrassed by his association with it—as well he should be. The starfen was a nuisance animal, a rodent that got into everything, stealing our stored nuts and wettle fruit, and tearing up whatever its rodent teeth could grasp. In truth, Pilkin somewhat resembled his spirit animal with that pointed nose and prominent teeth. I wondered if he had a bushy tail too, hidden beneath his ro
be.
Hunters had recently caught a razok, and this wild bird now sat on Satu’s padded left arm, with Satu’s right hand gripping a short tether that held the bird tightly in place. The razok rested calmly enough, with only its head stirring, jerking in quick motions as it surveyed its surroundings. The council members had returned to their bench after a brief break, and the contest commenced.
“Let us begin with a demonstration of control,” announced Barkor. “Pilkin will release the—ah—starfen (saying the word with obvious disdain), and then attempt to summon it back to the cage. Proceed.”
Pilkin looked as if he had just won a prize of a lovely death sentence as with shaking hands he placed the cage on the ground before the councilors and lifted its door. The starfen was no dummy and wasted little time dashing for freedom past the outlying tents and disappearing into the tall grasses beyond. We all burst out laughing and poor Pilkin just stood in dumb wonder, watching his shamanic career disappear along with the rodent. He tossed an anxious glance over to Barkor, as if expecting the council chief to tell him what to do. By Barkor’s black expression, I don’t think Pilkin expected any warm praise. He was correct.
“Idiot! Either you will summon that creature back to its cage, or you will find yourself chasing it down over the hills until you retrieve it. Either way, I expect you to get that sorry animal back.”
To me this was most entertaining. However, I felt it could be much more so. I could see that the starfen had not wandered too far away. It was visible, sitting in a thorel bush, munching nuts. I smiled, got up from my seat, and found a more private vantage point.
Pilkin was trying his utmost to retrieve the starfen by chanting and using burning sargrass, but I could tell he was nervous and messing up the notes, so the starfen ignored him. The shaman candidate had to be perfect in sounding the notes and performing the dance steps, while mentally picturing what he wanted the animal to do, in this case return to the cage. It was difficult to achieve, and that is why few were fit to be medicine men.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to go through all that. I found the starfen bone on my bracelet. Staring directly at the rodent, I whispered, not quite loudly enough for anyone to hear, “Bring a nut to Barkor.”
The starfen’s head jerked up and the creature turned to face me. It dropped from the thorel bush and vanished. I waited . . . and waited. I hoped the rodent’s vacating of the thorel had not been just a coincidence. Then, it appeared. The starfen startled the onlookers by racing back onto the ceremonial field, dashing right up to the councilors’ bench, and depositing a thorel nut in Barkor’s lap.
“Now, go back into the cage,” I whispered. Before Barkor even had time to swing his arm to knock the offending starfen off him, the creature had jumped down and returned to confinement, and the crowd had erupted in thunderous applause and cheers. Poor Pilkin looked confused, but soon realized the gift Ra-ta had bestowed on him and hurried to the cage to drop the door.
As excited voices sang the praises of Pilkin and his mastery over his spirit animal, I watched Barkor and wondered over the meaning of a sly smile that briefly creased his face. It wasn’t long before enlightenment arrived, as the tribe gossip, Porsalla, took that moment to plop her ample body beside me and seemed eager to relay some juicy secret.
“Do you know what I heard?” she asked in her best conspiratorial manner. Of course I hadn’t, but was certain I was about to.
“I heard Pilkin’s starfen was a trained animal, and not from the wild as required for the test. I heard from a trustworthy source that Barkor himself got the creature for Pilkin just a couple of days ago, and that it’s trained to return to the cage shortly after being let out. Could this be true?”
I mused on that a few seconds and thought it odd but certainly possible. However, if truly a trained animal, its training was deficient, for Pilkin was not the one who got it back into the cage, much as he might believe he had. However, there was that Barkor smile. Did he know, or at least expect, that Pilkin would succeed?
I saw Porsalla was waiting for an opinion so I shrugged and said, “It is unlikely Barkor would rig the testing. He knows he must have the best man as shaman.”
Porsalla sniffed her disappointment over my refusal to confirm her suspicions and left to find a more receptive ear. Meanwhile, it was time for Satu’s test to begin.
Satu stepped before the gathered men, extended his left arm, and loosened the leather strap binding the razok. In anticipation of release, the bird fluttered its wings and emitted a high, shrieking call. It took flight and climbed skyward, seeking the air currents on which to glide and was soon circling with majestic arcs high above in the cloudless sky.
Satu lit a handful of sargrass, began to chant and then dance with awkward motions, working his crippled leg as best he could. I watched the bird’s graceful turns above me and wished I could assist Satu. I wished my bracelet contained a razok bone, for it would be so easy to bring the bird right back down to Satu’s arm. However, that would be unfair to the boy. I wanted Satu to succeed, but perhaps it was better if he had to accomplish this on his terms, using his skills, not mine.
Then, it came down. A chill ran up my back as I watched the magnificent bird swoop toward the gathering, heading straight for Satu. With a sudden motion, it veered. Puzzled onlookers, including me, gasped as the razok dove directly at Barkor, passing only an arm’s length above him and excreting something white and viscous.
A roaring laughter exploded from the stands. Barkor, red-faced and furious, wiped the glop from his hair and delivered a venomous glare to the grinning Satu, who had the razok again resting calmly on his arm.
“You make a mockery of these proceedings!” Barkor all but screamed, spittle shooting from his mouth. He was now standing, and his fellow councilors, who had been laughing along with the rest of us, allowed their humor to fade as they witnessed the council chief’s wrath. I saw Semral, several places to Barkor’s left, still had a small grin on his face, and I realized how much I was beginning to like the old hunter.
“You did that on purpose!” Barkor continued to screech at Satu. “You are disqualified. Pilkin is our new shaman.”
A murmur of dissent rose from the councilors, but one glare from Barkor cowed them to silence. All except Semral.
The great hunter rose and with a calm voice said, “We will vote.”
Barkor turned to Semral with the look of a prodded viper, but Semral stared him down, forcing Barkor to choke out the words.
“All right, we will vote.”
The vote was six to four. Pilkin was our new shaman.
**
~~SEVEN~~