Mudiwar turned on Ramakoda then, a terrible rage in his face. But suddenly the old man threw up his arms and said, “Oh, Shimit take the lot of you! I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”
One of the slaves rushed to spread out his sleeping-furs, and people smiled at one another, relieved, and got their bedding. Ramakoda said something quietly to Ishtok, and it must have been a warning, because for once Ishtok did not place his bed next to mine. Lamps were put out, and people began to snore. I lay thinking about the day, holding it in my knowing, treasuring it, even the terrible moments, the echoes, the pains, and the stupendous joys. I thought of Ishtok lying not too far away in the dark, and remembered his understanding and his warmth, the feel of his hands upon my neck, the nearness of him. Gratitude flooded through me, for the great gift he had given me that was this day. At last I slept, holding in my hand the little bag of Shinali dust, and dreamed of the shining land.
11
The fiery leaves of autumn faded and fell, then winter breathed its cold across the land. By then we had moved back to our former camp. We had not traveled farther north, for Mudiwar was not well, and the journey would have been too much for him. Now that it was colder, the thicker clothes were taken from the large wooden chests in the chieftain’s tent, and I was given long winter dresses and shoes and a white coat of rabbit fur. Kimiwe said the clothes had been her mother’s, but Ramakoda made no comment.
Mudiwar’s illness worried me. At times, when he exerted himself, he could hardly breathe, and his lips were always blue. Worn out, he went to bed early each night, and lay listening to the stories and jokes, but not taking part. One evening I went and sat by him, and put my hand on his chest. I could feel the rattle of his lungs, and his awful struggle to breathe.
“Do your munakshi on me, Shinali woman,” he growled, between labored breaths. “I command it.”
“Such healing cannot be commanded, my chieftain,” I said. “But I will try.”
But though I stilled my mind and heart and prayed, and tried to visualize the healing light flowing through my hands to him, the power did not come. I tried to feel love toward him, to awaken a fondness, as if he were a grumpy but honored grandfather; but I felt nothing. His was the word that kept me here against my will, his command the cause of all my sorrow and pain, and I could not wipe that out.
“I’ll get some medicine for you,” I said, removing my hand.
As I stood to go to my healing tent, he said, “Useless Shinali witch! I don’t believe you’ve lost your power! I think you do it out of spite! You’re like all your people—a stinking parasite, a leech on the nation that shelters you!” Then he collapsed, exhausted.
In my healing tent I got the medicine for him, then sat alone awhile in the dark, shivering, lost in grief and doubt and a terrible longing for home.
Then came the day of the first snow, and there was excitement as the people prepared for their Feast of Forgetting. For the first time in my stay with them, they were to eat inside their tents, and Kimiwe told me they would eat inside all winter long. But the food was still cooked in pits outside, and the men did the cooking, wrapped in their furs against the fierce wind. Beyond them, the youths put up a low tent for sheltering the goats at night, and to keep them safe from wolves. The oldest goats had been killed for the feast.
While everyone else was busy outside Ramakoda came to me with a bag he had made, and told me to hide it under my sleeping-furs, with my coat and anything else I wished to take. “There is food in the bag,” he said, “enough for the day’s journey. I can’t tell you how much I wish I was going with you, with all the gifts and goodwill that you and I both had dreamed of. You’ll always be in my heart, Shinali woman.”
There were things I wanted to say to him, but some of the men came in, calling for him, and he turned and went out.
When the feast began I sat alone with my back to the tent wall, watching what was going on. All night the people ate, and laughed, and sang songs and told stories. At times the musicians banged drums and the women clapped, and the men got up and danced. They did not paint their faces the way we Shinali did but wore masks carved out of wood, stained with garish colors. Several times Ishtok came and sat with me to talk, but Chimaki was with me much of the time, and he said nothing about our plan.
All the next day I waited while the feast went on and the kuba flowed. I did not eat much, for I was too excited, thinking on my escape. While Chimaki was talking with the women, Ishtok came and sat by me.
“I’ve hidden my bow in your healing tent,” he said quietly. “I’ve put my coat there, too. When it is dark outside I’ll give you a signal. It will mean that I am going to get my things, and that after a short time you must leave, too. I’ll be waiting for you at the western side of the tents. Don’t try to say good-bye to anyone, lest they are questioned after, and punished for not telling Mudiwar. Only Ramakoda and I know you are going.”
“Will you be punished?” I asked. “Mudiwar will surely know you helped me.”
“Mudiwar is already far gone with kuba. By tonight’s middle they’ll all be far gone. I’m going to pretend I’ve drunk too much, so that if anyone does remember I disappeared for a time, I can say I fell over on my way back from the toilet pit, and fell asleep in the snow. It happens. You’re not afraid, are you?”
“I’m terrified. What is the signal you’ll give?”
“I’ll flap my arms like eagle’s wings.”
We smiled, and he put his hand inside his shirt and drew out something wrapped in fine leather. “Talking of eagles,” he said, “I have something for you.”
Unwrapping his gift, I discovered a drinking cup, beautifully formed out of wood. The bowl itself was perfectly smooth and round, but underneath it the wood was carved into an eagle, its wings spread wide and sweeping upward to hold the bowl. The bird was shaped as if it were just coming down to land, and its lowered talons and the tips of its tail feathers formed points for the cup to stand upon. For a few moments I could not speak; never had I been given such a gift, except for the tunic my father had painted.
“It’s beautiful,” I said at last. “I’ll treasure it, Ishtok, as long as I live. Thank you, with sharleema.” I touched his sleeve in the Igaal way of showing gratitude, and in the dimness I saw that his eyes were wet.
Softly, he kissed his fingertips and laid them against my cheek, then he went back to the dancing. Long heartbeats after, I felt his touch on my skin, the warmth and gentleness of him. So many times, since our journey to the Shinali land, we had been close, and many times I had thought that he would kiss me. But he never had, nor had we spoken of our feelings, and I supposed it was because I would soon be gone, or because he had made promises to a beautiful Hena girl called Navamani. As I watched him go back to the dancing now my heart ached, and I thought how fine he was, and how much I would miss him after this night.
Bending my head low over the cup he had made, I traced the eagle’s wing, and thought of the eagle on the bone torne Yeshi wore. The images blurred, combined, both unspeakably precious to me. I wrapped the cup in the leather again, and, when no one was watching, put it carefully in the bag hidden behind me, under my bedding, close to the tent wall.
Ramakoda came and sat with me for a few moments. He brought me some food. As he gave me the bowl he said, “Go well, sister of mine. We’ll meet again, in the Eagle’s Time.”
“I live for that day,” I said. “Thank you for all that you have done for me, Ramakoda. For being an older kinsman to me in every way, for protecting me and helping me.”
“Not as much as you’ve helped me,” he said. “But for your help, my bones would be bleaching out by the Ekiya, and Kimiwe would be flying in the wind. I owe you a great debt, and will never forget it.”
“My heart and yours will always be together,” I said and touched my hand to my chest, then to his.
“They surely will,” he said. “Shimit go with you.”
Then he stood up and went back to the dances.
Chimaki came and sat by me, leaning her head on my shoulder. My heart ached, thinking I would not see her again.
“You’re a good healer, Chimaki,” I said. “If anything ever happened to me, you’d manage well on your own. You know the medicines to give to Mudiwar. If his breathing gets hard, make him breathe over steaming water with leaves in it from the inagha plant.”
“Nothing will happen to you,” she said.
Darkness came, and more hot meat was brought in, and more jars of kuba. There were more dances, prayers, and rituals, and I half-listened, drifting in and out of sleep, for none of us had slept much the previous night. I woke suddenly, disturbed by the lack of noise. They all were sleeping, many of them snoring, men, women, and children lying every which way on the rich carpets, beyond knowing, thick furs pulled roughly across them. Even the slaves slept, and the brazier fires burned low, their glow flickering across the furs and flushed faces, and on the drinking cups and empty food bowls stacked high on the wooden chests. I could not see Ramakoda or Chimaki, though Kimiwe slept near me, a doll clutched in her arms.
Across the dim tent someone got up and stumbled over the sleeping forms toward the door. He turned and looked at me, and I saw that it was Ishtok. He flapped his arms like wings, then went out.
My heart thumped painfully. I longed to hug Kimiwe, to say good-bye to her, but I simply kissed her cheek while she slept, then dragged my bag and winter coat from under my furs. I was already wearing new boots Ramakoda had made me, and the warmest winter dress I had. Shaking, sick with apprehension and joy, I lifted the tent flap and rolled outside, dragging my bag after me. The other tents around were powdered white under the moonlight, and were quiet. There was no one but myself outside. I could smell smoke from the cooking pits, and could hear the river rushing southward into the night.
I pulled on my coat and laced it up, then took the mittens from my bag and drew them on. I pulled my hood over my head, and placed my bag over my shoulder. My breath was white in the moonlight, and the cold made my face ache. It had stopped snowing, and a moon, sharp as ice, blazed among the bitter stars. I turned westward and began walking.
I walked quickly, my steps crunching on the snow between the sleeping tents; no one came out. Once a dog barked, hearing me, but a man sleepily swore it to silence. On I went, past the last row of tents. Ishtok was there, on the edge of the plain, his fur coat black against the snow. His bow was across his back, with a quiver of arrows. He said no word but turned toward the plain, and we began walking. On and on through the winter whiteness we went, into the silence and the west. Running east to west were the five stars we Shinali called the Pathway of the Sun, and we followed their direction. Often we turned and looked back at the camp spread along the riverbank, but there was no one about. We did not speak.
We were halfway across the plain before Ishtok relaxed and said to me, with a grin, “This is your freedom, Avala, forever this time. What does it feel like?”
“A high lot joyful,” I said. “But sad, too.”
He took my hand, and I wished I were not wearing mittens, so I could feel our hands palm to palm. He was not wearing a hood, and there were flecks of snow in his black curls. He did not speak again, and we walked quickly across the moonlit plain. An age, it seemed, since I had ridden across this plain in front of an Igaal rider, with Ramakoda moaning beside us. I looked back at the tents; already they seemed like another world. Ahead were the forested hills. I could see the tree trunks stark against the snow ahead, but they were layered with white above. Then the plain was behind us, and we were in the shadows under the trees.
Letting go of my hand, Ishtok took his bow, and got an arrow in readiness. “Wolves,” he said. “Maybe bears. We’d make an easy prey. Keep very quiet.”
It was easier walking in the forest, for little snow had fallen through the branches, though the ground was dark. Through the treetops I glimpsed a sky already turning gray. Once we saw two wolves, their eyes yellow and their breaths misty, and Ishtok yelled at them and they fled, vanishing like smoke among the trees. He had not even lifted his bow, though I was glad he had it.
Too soon we were through the forest, facing a wide plain pink from the dawn, with mountains on the other side and a black river cutting through the white. The Ekiya.
“Here’s where we say farewell,” said Ishtok. “You will be safe; the soldiers never come in the winter. But go quickly.”
I pressed my hand to his breast, over his dark fur coat, and spoke the Shinali farewell. He placed his hand over mine, and bent his head until our brows touched. He was much taller than I. His breath blew like mist about my face, and was warm. Briefly his lips brushed mine.
“May all the gods go with you,” he said.
I wanted to say things to him, deep things, but did not know where to begin. Then suddenly it was too late, and he was backing away, trying to smile, failing. Behind him the sun rose red in a stormy sky. Clouds, black and heavy, were tumbling in from the north.
“Go well!” he called, and waved once, then turned and vanished among the trees.
A long time I stood looking at the shadows that had swallowed him. Then, from far in the forest a wolf howled, and I turned and began walking across the wide white grasslands. The sun was lost again behind heavy cloud.
By the day’s middle I had reached the ravine carved by the wild Ekiya through the mountains, and the river tumbled out to meet me before plunging northward to the plains. I stopped and ate some of the meat Ramakoda had packed into my bag, for I had eaten little at the feast, and drank from the waterskin he had given me. Not far to my left was the sloping rock, slick with ice, that I had hidden beneath when the soldiers came. So long ago, it seemed.
Once more I looked back across the plain toward the Igaal lands, but saw no one following. Already it was snowing again over the forest, and the air was like ice. I thought of Ishtok, no doubt already in his bed again, perhaps asleep. I wondered how long it would be before they would notice I was not there. I tramped on, the river booming beside me, its tumultuous voices echoing down from the high cliffs around. This was familiar territory, though made gloomy and bleak by the snow and ice, and it gave me so much joy to see it again—though even this joy, much longed-for and much imagined, was overshadowed by a niggling fear. Trying to blot it out, to feel only the pleasure of my homecoming, I sang Shinali songs, and strode on.
The skies were heavy with impending snow by the time I reached the end of the gorge. I rounded the last bend, my breath stopped, my heart already leaping at that precious sight of home—and there was nothing there.
I stopped, astounded, unbelieving. I rubbed my eyes, went forward a little way, shut my eyes, then opened them again. The valley was there, the river running dark beside the place where we had lived, the Napangardi Mountains white and majestic beyond—but the tents, the tents were gone. The ground was smooth, white with snow, empty. Silent. No cooking fires, no children. No laughter. No welcoming shouts. Nothing.
I stumbled on, sobbing, shaking my head and calling out the names of those I loved, all my worst fears crashing over me. In the middle of the valley I stopped, looked back, looked all around. I was shaking, shocked, aching all through, aching in my heart, my head. I searched the ground, looking for a sign. How could they have gone without leaving a sign? How could they have gone without me? Then it hit me—that maybe they thought the soldier I had seen had not been Embry at all, but someone else who had betrayed me, and that the Navoran soldiers had come back and taken me prisoner. Maybe my people had fled, believing their hiding place no longer safe. But where had they gone?
I turned all around, looking at the many long passes into the mountains, wondering which way they had fled. And then I realized that now they would be a summer’s worth of journeying away. There was no way I would find them. They were gone, and I was alone in the world.
I cannot tell the misery I felt that hour as I sat in the snow in the valley that had been home, and wept and wept for all that I had
lost. And while I wept it snowed, and a wind came, and my tears turned to ice on my cheeks. At last I got up and faced back the way I had come. Alarmed, I saw nothing but whirling snow and the gorge rapidly vanishing in mist. I could just make out my footprints, half covered already, and began to follow them. I would find shelter in the gorge, maybe even a little cave, where I could wait until it was safe to journey back to the Igaal.
Snow fell heavily, blowing about me in great drifts, and I could see nothing. I stumbled on in the whiteness, my eyes smarting with the cold, every breath an ache. On and on I walked, blind and frozen. Sometimes I thought I saw a shadow, a deepness in the white, and thought it was the river; but I never found it, and there were no cliffs, no sign that I was in the gorge. Then came fear, terrible and overwhelming. At last I found myself pressing against great piles of snow, and realized they were rocks. Feeling my way around them, I found a tiny cleft and curled up there, covering myself with my blanket. There I stayed while the wind wailed and moaned all around, and the snow blew over and weighed heavy on me, and all the world was white.
I slept, and when I woke it had stopped snowing, and a great quiet lay all around. My blanket had frozen, and the snow on it had made a kind of den. Peeping out, I saw an orange sun sliding down behind unfamiliar peaks. Trying not to panic, I said a prayer to the All-father, then ate half the bread that was left, and dozed again.
When I next woke it was day. I was in a valley surrounded by mountains. It had stopped snowing but the skies were brooding and dark, hiding the sun, and there was a freezing wind. Though I was hungry, I dared not eat the last of the bread, not yet. I went on, lost, in deepening despair. The cold went right through me, and I walked with my blanket about me, hitched up across the lower part of my face, and my hood pulled tight about my head; but still my eyes watered and froze in the wind, and my ears ached, and my feet felt like ice.