Slops duty is the worst. Emptying slop pots is nasty, nasty work. It was often Satu's chore, thanks to an unfortunate event, when a wayward bird offered an unwanted gift to council chief Barkor during the shaman selection proceedings. Slops are as bad as they sound; they are pots of human urine and excrement that require emptying each morning. These vessels, placed outside each tent at night, provide a convenience for those who need to go but don’t want to wander far from camp or challenge the darkness to do so. No one wants to encounter a can-rak or other such nasty while doing one’s business.
Satu was not the only one assigned to slops duty this midsummer day, but he was the one who drew my attention. I observed him heading out to the pit away from camp to dump the pots, gingerly balancing a container that seemed close to brimming. As I viewed his slow progress from a distance, I felt a stab of guilt. For if my actions had not prevented Pilkin from showing his true incompetence at the shaman trials, I was certain Satu would be medicine man today.
As I watched, three figures approached the struggling Satu. One was Bratar, hard to miss with those ridiculous muscles, jutting jaw, and that square head topped with a smear of black. The other two were minions. They were Bratar’s hangers-on, fawning worshippers of the hero hunter. Bratar was a man now, no longer the boy whose life I had once saved. The two with him were a few years younger, and I doubt they were truly friends of Bratar. They appeared to be more like pets, like starfens you might feed, which then wind up following you around.
I moved closer, wanting to hear and see what this was all about. Bratar was speaking, and by his tone I could tell the encounter was not friendly. Satu showed a defensive posture, holding the stinking pot in front of him like a shield. I stepped closer to hear Bratar’s words.
“Don’t trip and fall,” he taunted, and at the same time tried to swing his leg to hit Satu’s bad one.
“Don’t trip and fall,” the minions echoed, and by their originality I imagined there might be a third of a brain between the two of them. Satu did a remarkable job balancing the putrid vessel while at the same time avoiding Bratar’s leg swipes. Then, a kick landed, Satu wobbled, and a portion of his pot of filth spilled forward onto Bratar’s tunic.
With a fine degree of alacrity, Satu placed the pot promptly on the ground and used the spill’s distraction to try breaking free of encirclement. An alert minion grabbed him by his left arm, however, allowing the other time to step in and grip his right. Bratar, in a red-faced fury, stepped forward, eager to pound his fist into Satu’s midsection.
I spoke.
“Leave the boy alone.”
Bratar stopped with arm cocked and turned to view his new challenger. When he saw me, he didn’t know how to react. I could almost see the slow progression of thoughts forming in his shallow mind. A girl has challenged me. She is the one who laughed at my story. I will beat her. Or, something like that.
“You have no business here, selate,” Bratar at last managed to say, following his words with a sneering grin that indicated he thought the comment clever. It was the same epithet his father had used the night he banished me from the ceremonial tent; it is a double-charged, ugly slur that disparages one’s ancestry and implies a limited mental capacity.
The minions laughed. How ironic.
“You are disrupting Satu’s duties,” I said, ignoring Bratar’s provocation. “Your father assigned him the work. Do you wish to interfere with his intentions?”
Bratar gave a sullen look and I could tell he was mulling over what I said. Then, a glint of anger flashed in his eyes.
“You will not tell me what to do, girl. These are a man’s concerns and you are not fit to speak to me of them.”
I expected Bratar’s unimaginative answer. He didn’t have the brains to offer a reasonable argument, so all he could do was bluster. I decided to prod him.
“So, Bratar, if this is a man’s business, why are you here? Would a man get thrown from a porse without even inflicting a single wound to the beast?”
That did it. A red flush of angry embarrassment lit Bratar’s face. He took a menacing step toward me. Satu, still restrained by the minions, watched with puzzled interest, perhaps wondering why this crazy girl would deliberately invite the pain that was sure to come.
“Keep opening your mouth,” Bratar said, his voice laced with threat, “and I will jam it full of grass.” Bratar’s pets smirked in unison, their faces joyful in anticipation of their hero administering this grass-stuffing lesson. I was unfazed and continued to provoke.
“Chased any can-raks lately? Or are you afraid they might throw you, too?” As expected, my words were like a rik-ta poke to Bratar’s eye. He lost all semblance of control and came at me in a furious rush, shouting obscenities.
“I’ll break your neck, selate!”
I stood calm and composed, waiting for the moment. As Bratar reached to grab and pummel me, I turned, swinging my upper body low while whipping my right leg upward. The hard edge of my bare foot caught Bratar flush beneath his jaw.
He dropped like a speared porse. Bratar was out cold.
The minions stood frozen, offering mirror expressions of surprise and confusion—the latter probably their natural state. I feigned an attack and they both flinched as if connected to the same nerves. They released Satu, fled, and never looked back. Satu eyed me with a studied curiosity, and then his mouth widened into a wicked little grin. He picked up the slop pot and dumped its remaining contents over Bratar’s head.
That impulsive act did not seem a wise move, so we ran, though Satu’s bad leg considerably slowed our escape. However, it was soon clear that Bratar would not be pursuing, as his fetid shower failed to awaken him. I accompanied Satu back toward the camp. Since his pot was now empty, he would return it and get another, then another, until completing the nasty chore.
As we walked, Satu spoke.
“I did it,” he said without explanation.
I glanced over.
“Did what?”
“I made the bird poop on Barkor.”
I stopped, causing him to do the same.
“You did what? Why? You had a chance to be shaman.”
Satu shrugged. “I had heard the rumors. Pilkin was Barkor’s choice, so there was no chance he would let me win. And on top of that, I didn’t like Barkor’s remarks about me.”
“But Pilkin doesn’t deserve to be shaman,” I insisted. “He didn’t even get his animal to do what it was supposed to do.”
Satu gave me a perplexed look.
“Sure he did. The starfen ran right back into the cage.”
Oops. I had not meant to say that and had to recover.
“Well, it certainly took him long enough.”
“Where did you learn to kick like that?” asked Satu, thankfully changing the subject. “That was incredible!”
“My father taught me some things and others I just figured out for myself. That kick was my own move. I’ve been practicing it for years.”
“Will you teach me?”
“Perhaps, someday.”
We approached the campsite and something was amiss. A crowd milled outside the big tent. When we came into sight someone shouted, “There she is!”
Accusing eyes turned to me, and the grim scrutiny was troubling. What had I done? Then Barkor exited from the tent, saw me, and waved over two burly hunters.
“Seize her,” he commanded. The two hunters moved toward me. Having no clue what was happening and being somewhat in shock, I did not resist, for the rapidly unfolding events had caught me off guard. They grabbed my arms with unnecessary roughness and dragged me over to Barkor.
“Put her inside there,” said Barkor, pointing. I soon found myself within the walls of a small, empty tent, with the two hunters posted outside. Placing someone under guard was usually the response to some grievous offense. What had I done? Had this to do with Bratar? Unlikely. He could not have beaten us back
to the campsite. What then?
There was nothing to do but wait, since the two guards were uncommunicative, so I sat on the ground in the vacant tent and played with loose threads on my tunic. I must have fallen asleep, for when a noise jolted me awake, night had already fallen. Outside the tent they were changing guards, and one had accidentally kicked over a pot. I peeked through the tent opening to see what else was happening. There was only a campfire and blackness. I went back to sleep.
The next morning a guard awakened me with a rude kick. I slipped on my sandals and the two guards escorted me to another enclosure, the ceremonial tent. It was the first time I had been in one since my banishment. It was a different tent in a different year, but its familiarity brought a rush of memories . . . my father practicing his craft . . . the thrilling stories of the hunt . . . serving, laughing, and dreaming with Lillatta; all these special moments found their recall, swiftly passing through my mind as I entered.
An all-male audience of tribal members sat inside the tent along with the tribal council, with the councilors seated on a bench behind a long, sturdy table. Acrid smoke from a central fire rose to the tent’s sky opening. The draft wasn’t perfect and the smoke drifted around the enclosure, stinging my eyes. Low voices murmured in ominous undertones. I could not make out the words, but it was impossible to miss the occasional finger pointed in my direction.
I glanced around the tent. Pilkin picked his nose over by the councilors’ table. There was no sign of Bratar or Satu, but I spied Semral at his council seat studiously avoiding eye contact. That confirmed to me that I was in deep trouble.
Then, I spotted Lillatta. She was off to the side, sitting by herself, and the only female there other than me. She caught my eye and then quickly glanced downward. She did not raise her sight again to meet mine. A spike of fear shot through me. What have you done, Lil? Why are we here?
Barkor took his place among the council members. I stood facing them from the central spot where the two escorts had left me. My mouth felt dry and my skin grimy. I had last bathed in the stream near our camp two days before and I reeked of sweat. I wanted to go wash my hair, clothes, and body, and not have to try to decipher or endure what was happening. I took another glance at Lillatta, but she existed solely in a world of her own. Why are you here, Lil? I had a sense it was not to give me support in whatever this was, though I wished that were the case.
“These proceedings are begun,” Barkor intoned. He waited for the assemblage to quiet down and then continued. “The accused, Sanyel, is charged with breaking our sacred laws, willfully and deliberately. She is charged with practicing the secret male arts of the shaman, and thus—”
An audible, collective gasp interrupted the tribal chief, followed by a buzz of angry voices that filled the tent. Barkor’s words placed me on alert as this large piece of the puzzle fell into place. My secret was out. Someone had exposed my clandestine activities, and I knew that only Lillatta and Semral were privy to that knowledge.
“Silence!”
Barkor’s booming voice startled the crowd and the voices gradually died. Barkor decided to expedite the matters at hand.
“Bring forward the witness.”
I saw Lillatta tremble as she rose and knew something very bad was about to happen. Lillatta still would not look at me as she took a seat provided for her next to the council. Barkor stood and came around the table to face her. He was at his ministerial best, clearly enjoying having the stage as he spoke to Lil in a soft tone I had never heard him use.
“Now, please tell us what you know of the actions of the accused regarding the flouting of our sacred laws.”
Lillatta appeared about to cry, and strange as it might seem, I wanted to go over and comfort her. I knew Lillatta. I knew her as I knew myself, and she would never betray me, never without good reason. I desperately desired to learn what that reason was.
“Sanyel’s father,” Lillatta began, and then stopped. She was silent for a moment, and then with hesitation began again. “He was—uh—training us. I was allowed to train only with weapons, but Sanyel was—”
Lillatta stopped again and seemed not to want to say anything else. Barkor used his soothing tones to coax her to continue. Her eyes were down, her voice barely audible, even though the room was quiet.
“She was training,” Lillatta went on, “—or, I mean she was making—umm, she was—”
“Say it!” Barkor commanded.
Barkor’s sharp tone startled Lillatta, causing her to let free what had been tangling her tongue.
“She was making potions!” The words burst from Lillatta as if their very vileness could no longer reside within her throat.
The angry buzz returned to the room, now punctuated by random shouts.
“Quiet!” warned Barkor, and the buzz died.
“What else?” Barkor asked Lil, his voice again emulating the softness of a summer breeze. “What else did the accused do?”
“I can’t, I can’t,” Lil protested, now crying openly. She seemed on the verge of a total breakdown. Barkor was losing his patience, and he decided to try another tack.
“You will tell us right now or I will have Kalor executed in front of you.”
There was a second collective intake of breath, and then the discordant buzz rose to another level. Now I knew the reason I was here. Kalor was under threat of execution for something he had done. I knew Kalor, however, and he was not capable of committing a capital offense. Something was wrong here; this did not add up. Still, if the case weren’t strong, Lillatta would not have made this bargain to spare his life. My life in exchange for Kalor’s. Barkor would have jumped at the chance to prosecute such a case, to preside over such a spectacle. In our culture there was no greater glory than to administer Ra-ta’s punishment to a violator of the sacred.
Barkor again silenced the agitated crowd and turned back to Lillatta.
“You will tell us what Sanyel did, right now,” Barkor warned. “It is your last chance.”
This was tearing Lillatta apart, but I knew what she would do. She loved Kalor. I could not condemn her for her choice, for it was an impossible one. She was my friend, and even as she betrayed me, even as she broke the oath of secrecy she had made to my father, I knew this would not change my feelings for her. I fully understood her actions, understood that they were not malicious. What option did she have?
Lillatta looked up and then around. She caught my eye briefly and then glanced away. In a low, toneless voice, she said, “She performed the rituals. The sacred rituals.”
For a fourth time the tent reverberated with the fury of the righteous. This time Barkor let them howl.
“Sinner!” someone shouted and the word echoed from several others. A rock flew from the assemblage and struck me on the left arm below the elbow. I flinched from the pain and Barkor attempted to seize control again.
“Silence!” he shouted, but the beast was loose and the can-rak tasted blood.
“I said SILENCE!” And the snarling beast calmed.
Barkor faced me. It was time for the formality of allowing the accused to offer up a feeble defense, and then proceed to the sentence. For that was Sakita justice. Once brought before the council you were as good as doomed if your only defense was your word. It was cut and dried. The damning testimony of my best friend was enough for me to expect no pardon from the executioner’s blade, even if such a thing existed—which, it didn’t.
“What do you have to say to these charges?” Barkor was asking.
I had nothing to say. It was all true. I inspected the room. Lillatta, broken and crying, had pulled herself up into a fetal ball. Semral stared straight ahead, his thoughts and emotions unreadable. No one else held my interest, so I returned my attention to the council chief.
“It is all true,” I said.
The can-rak readied to roar again but Barkor preempted the outburst with a counte
ring bellow. With order restored, he pivoted to face his fellow councilors.
“She admits to it all,” he said. As he did, I thought I caught a hint of triumph in his voice. He turned to walk the length of the councilors’ table, and then he put his hand to his wide chin, his expression now sober. He appeared to be contemplating the gravity of the upcoming decision, though I doubt he felt anything but satisfaction. We had not gotten along since I publicly embarrassed his son. I wondered if he saw this as payback.
After he had held his pose long enough, Barkor resumed speaking. “My one regret is that the true culprit goes unpunished. Nanki has escaped justice. He is the actual villain here and it is a shame that another must suffer for his actions. Nevertheless, we cannot allow emotions to cloud our duty. Sanyel admits her part. She must accept the consequences. She must”—Barkor paused for effect—“be put to death.”
The frightful words drew an uncomfortable mixture of anguished cries and enthusiastic cheers. I knew many in the crowd, those who had watched me grow from childhood, would feel torn by the finality of this judgment. They had known the probable outcome of the trial, but it is never until someone speaks the words that the true impact registers. A life is to be taken and a member of the family forever gone. And although it was my life in danger of forfeit, I felt nothing. My father and mother were no more. My best friend had betrayed me. Let be what will be.
At that moment the assemblage went silent as a commanding presence rose from the councilors’ bench. When the great Semral stood, the crowd turned as one, waiting with keen expectation to hear the revered hunter’s thoughts. Barkor looked annoyed, but even he had the common sense not to deny Semral his voice.
“There is another option,” Semral stated, “one the council chief seems to have overlooked.”
The tent was silent, with every eye focused on the old hunter.
“Banishment to the Desert of Bones.”
Utterances of surprise emanated from those gathered, followed by voices in support of this alternative.
Barkor evinced a resentful look. It was the look of a man thwarted, who knew he could not override the law and that banishment was now an undesired option.
Banishment. I was becoming a bit too familiar with the word. However, banishment from a large tent held no comparison to what I now faced. Exile to the Desert of Bones was not a guarantee of survival. It still might be a death sentence, of that I had no illusions, but at least you stood the chance of a miracle, a chance to find a way to stay alive. For that reason, I began to perk up. I sensed something happening that had the hand of Ra-ta behind it.
“Let us vote for banishment,” Semral was saying, “for the girl did not ask for this. Her father forced her into it. Nanki deserved death, but he is not here. Sanyel was but an innocent tool of a depraved mind. We cannot absolve her of all responsibility, for the law is clear. Justice must be served, but it must also be fair. Let us vote.”
This usurping of his control over the proceedings clearly disturbed Barkor, but seeing no recourse, he agreed to allow a vote.
The vote was seven to three—for banishment to the Desert of Bones.
**
~~NINE~~