“So Ramakoda told us,” she replied. “Though your people are our enemies, he has it in his mind to ask that you be nazdar. So you are safe.”
“I’m not knowing the meaning of nazdar,” I said.
“It means under protection. More than guest, more than friend. If it is agreed to, you will stay in Ramakoda’s family tent as kinswoman to him.”
“Will you tell me what happened to Ramakoda’s three children?” I asked.
“One as good as dead,” she said, “and two sons taken in slavery.”
Then she went away, leaving me to rest. I lay down, not expecting to sleep, because of the strangeness of my situation and the danger of being deep in enemy territory. Also, it was strong in my knowing that my own people would be searching for me, and that my mother would surely be desperate. I remembered Ramakoda’s sacred vow that he would soon take me home, and it was my only comfort. I slept at last and dreamed that I could hear my mother weeping. When I woke the tent was in darkness, and I could hear people sleeping about me. Again I slept.
When next I woke it was day and there were sounds of busyness outside the tent, and I could smell cooking. From the distance came the bleating of goats. I was alone. A clean dress had been put out for me on a cushion at the end of my bed, and on a woven rug nearby stood a large pot of water with some clean cloths for washing. There was also a small metal bowl with some charcoal embers in it, and some pieces of wood that gave off a pungent smoke, not unlike the musky scent that hung about the tent. I did not know what it was for, though it was placed next to the pot of washing water. Everything seemed alien, and I yearned again for home.
All around the tent were many chests or boxes covered with rugs, and set with pottery lamps filled with oil, but yet unlit. I saw bedding rolled up and placed at one side against the walls, and there were urns filled with water or grain, and boxes carved and inlaid with colored woods, that contained jewelry or knives. Uninterrupted, I examined everything and discovered that most of the large chests contained heavy clothes of many layers padded and lined with fur. There were chests storing boots and horse equipment and extra rugs, and narrow boxes containing Igaal arrows. I discovered that the musky fragrance came from the wooden chests, either from the wood itself, or from spices the Igaal put in their clothes.
As I ran my fingers across the wondrous carvings and beautiful urns and rich rugs, I remembered the tattered flax mats and chipped bowls and buckled iron pots that were all my people had to call their wealth. I remembered Ramakoda’s words about his tribe being only one small tribe of many tribes, and for the first time I realized how impoverished my people were, and how pitifully few.
Saddened by the new things in my knowing, I stripped and washed myself all over. I washed my hair, too, and it felt good to be clean again. I dressed in the Igaal garment, a dress long like my own, with wide sleeves to my wrists, but this was made of fine leather and not of wool. It was not painted as our garments were painted, but all around the hem and sleeves a pattern had been cut out with a sharp knife, and it was beautifully done. The pattern in my dress and the patterns in the tattoos I had seen were similar. The dress, too, smelled of the musky odor.
Crossing the floor, I waited awhile before the tent doorway, saying a prayer to the All-father. I needed courage, for it was strong in my knowing that I was alone in enemy territory, though so far I had been treated well. My hand shook as I lifted the tent flap and stepped outside.
Blinking in bright sunlight, I saw that it was about day’s middle. Again, the vastness of the Igaal camp astonished me. It was ten times, at least, the size of our entire Shinali nation. Under the trees along the riverbank large mats were spread, and people sat on them, eating a meal. Beyond the tents the birds were gone, the skies and stones silent and empty. Herds of goats roamed, shepherded by children.
There was a shout, and one of the children pointed at me. Then they all were still, looking at me. Everyone stared, and no one smiled. Afraid, I forced myself to look back at them. And in every face it seemed that a tent flap came down, shutting me out. Cold as winter stone their faces were, set hard with years of hate and bitterness and scorn.
Longing for the faces of those who loved me, I was about to flee back into the dark safety of the tent when a man stood up and came toward me. He was Ramakoda, though he was much changed, clean and strong. He limped but did not use a stick. I smiled, glad to see his friendly face, though layers of sorrow were laid across the grief already on him.
Reaching me, he stopped. “Come, Avala,” he said with gentleness. “I have a boon to ask my father, on your behalf.”
Trembling, I went with him to a long flax mat nearer the river. Over thirty people sat there, and I recognized one of them as the old man who had come to meet us. He was sitting cross-legged, before him a bowl of steaming meat and a plate of torn flat bread. As Ramakoda approached, the old man stood up and faced us. I noticed that he stood with difficulty, relying on a sturdy stick for support.
Ramakoda whispered to me to do as he did, then he went and knelt on the edge of the mat before his father, his forehead to the ground. I thought it strange that a son should kneel to his own father. I knelt beside him, my forehead, too, bent to the earth. Then Ramakoda lifted his head and spoke.
“This woman is Avala of the Shinali,” he said. “She has shown me great kindness, and came with me freely to give me help and strength. She healed me, and you have seen the measure of her skill. It is my wish that while here she is protected, and that she stays in our tent as my nazdar kinswoman, until the time when I can take her back to her own people. I ask your favor on this.”
For a long time we knelt there while all around were silent, waiting for the chieftain’s judgment. I realized that this was the formal asking that would decide my fate. My heart thundered as I stared at the long thin legs of the chieftain before us. He wore trousers of leather, carved down the sides in patterns, as my dress was carved. I saw that one of his feet was crooked, an old break in which the bones had never been set aright. Once I lifted my gaze to his face and saw that it was very lined and full of pain, and his short gray hair stuck out about his ears.
At last the chieftain said, “I cannot bless the presence of an enemy in our camp, especially an enemy from the Shinali, whom we despise. But she has my protection, since she gave you aid. She may stay today, but tomorrow she must go.”
Ramakoda bent his head, then stood up. I, too, bowed my head and thanked the chieftain, then Ramakoda took me to sit on the far side of the feasting-mat. He gave me a bowl of meat and told me to help myself to the platters of bread and cress and cooked roots. The food smelled strange to me, and I learned later that meat and vegetables were cooked in pits dug into the earth, covered over with leaves and hot stones.
The meal continued, and people began to talk, though it seemed to me that their conversation was strained, and there was no laughter. There were many other mats spread out along the riverbank, where the air was cool, but I heard no laughter from those groups, either, for all were grieving for loved ones lost to slavery or death. I heard no talk of the ones who were absent; men spoke of a hunt they planned, and of a new canoe they were carving, while the women talked of the clothes they had to make before winter, or the things they wanted to trade from one another, jewelry or clothing or toys for their children. No one spoke to me save Ramakoda.
During the meal I said to him, “I was told about your two sons taken as slaves, Ramakoda. I’m sorry.”
“There were many taken,” he said. “Every family in the tribe has suffered loss. I swear by Shimit, if I was chieftain here, we’d be going to Navora now to get them back.”
“Would your father ever do that?”
“No. He used to be a great warrior, but he’s old now, and wants only peace. He pays a high price for this, what he calls peace.”
I said nothing, sensing a deep anger in him.
After a while he asked, “Later today, would you sew up my cuts? Our priestess wanted to treat th
em, but I said I would have you do it, and no other. She warned me of dire consequences, but I shall risk them.”
“Of course I’ll sew up your cuts,” I said. “Tell me, where is your priestess?”
“She’s the one beside my father,” he said.
Looking across the mat, I saw an old woman rocking slowly back and forth, the air about her filled with the sharp shadows of pain. Both her feet were bound with strips of cloth, deeply stained.
“Her name is Gunateeta,” Ramakoda said. “She doesn’t do much healing anymore. Last winter she was lost in the snow for several days, and the cold killed her feet. Now she can barely walk. My father wants her to teach one of the women her healing skills, but she is bitter and short-tempered, and no one wants to work with her. Soon we will have no healer.”
I looked away from the holy woman to a youth with striking patterns on his coat. He was the only one with painted clothes, and though he had an Igaal tattoo on his brow, he seemed different from the other youths. He was good-looking, with hair curling in heavy ringlets cut shoulder length, and his soul-colors were mauve and blue, the finest hues.
“My youngest brother, Ishtok,” said Ramakoda, seeing where I looked. “He is our pledge-son.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“The Hena are a divided people. Tribe fights tribe, and some of them fight us, while others are friendly. Many summers ago we were attacked by a Hena tribe and had almost lost the battle when another Hena tribe—enemy to the one that attacked us—came to our rescue. Afterward, when we had won the battle, the Hena chieftain who had helped us and our chieftain swore always to be at peace with each other. As a pledge of friendship, the Hena chieftain sent one of his sons to live with us for five years, and Mudiwar sent Ishtok to live with the Hena tribe. Ishtok came home to us three summers ago.”
“Who is the man he talks with?”
“That is my other brother, Chro. Chro fought well in the battle against the Navoran soldiers, so they tell me. My other two brothers were taken for slaves. The woman next to them is my sister, Chimaki. Her husband died two summers ago, of fever. They had no children. She is second mother to my youngest child.”
“I’m not understanding,” I said. “What is second mother?”
He explained, “In Igaal clans, every close kinswoman to a child is considered its mother. Its birth mother is called its first mother. If—if my youngest child lives, Chimaki will be her second mother.”
He went very still, and grief went through him again, hard like a sword. It is strange how I felt his feelings, the same way I felt my mother’s or those of other people I loved. I think we were bound together by fate long before we met, Ramakoda and I. He said, of his youngest child, “Kimiwe is five summers old. During the battle she was knocked into a fire. She’s dying of the burns, but death comes slow.”
“Where is Kimiwe now?” I asked.
“In the healing tent, with the others wounded in the battle. The healing tent is Gunateeta’s domain, and only she may go in there, for it is full of the spirits she calls upon to help. Gunateeta tells me that Kimiwe is beyond knowing, though she still breathes.”
“Many times I’ve helped my mother heal burns,” I said. “My father taught my mother to heal burns the Navoran way.”
He looked at me, astonished. “Sewing up cuts I can understand, and giving plants to fight poisons,” he said. “But burns . . . Well, they’re another matter. You can heal burns, Avala?”
“I’m knowing what to do with burns,” I said, “though it’s not the healing that is hard but keeping out poisons afterward.”
“If you stopped Kimiwe’s pain, and tried to do the healing, she would have a chance at life.”
“And if I try to heal her and she dies?” I said. “What will you do to me?”
“There would be no blame in you. She is dying anyway, so you cannot make her worse. If you only take away her pain, I would be thankful. I know your healing well, Avala. I’m willing for you to do this thing, if you are willing.”
I hesitated, not because of the child, but because of what these people might do to me if I failed, no matter what Ramakoda said.
“I already owe you my own life, Shinali woman,” he said. “And you have agreed to do more healing on me. If I ask too much, I am sorry. My daughter is all I have left of my family. She is heart of my heart.”
“I’ll do my best for her,” I said at last, “if your father, and all your people, will swear to let me go in peace, no matter the outcome. I’ll not be trapped in a thing that might kill me.”
“You were trapped in such a thing the moment you first knelt by me, to help me,” he said.
And then I remembered the words of our priest, Zalidas, and the hope I had that first hour with Ramakoda, when the lands about me burned with light and the ancient prophecy hung in the skies as clear as an eagle’s wings. I thought that perhaps, in the All-father’s knowing, my true work in the Igaal lands lay yet before me, and my healing of Ramakoda was only the beginning.
“I have never been trapped with you, Ramakoda,” I said. “But I still would like your father’s blessing on anything I do here, among your people.”
“Then I’ll ask for it,” he said, “when the feast is over.”
I noticed that some people had not joined in the feast—five people who stood over the mats with the food, waving large fans made of branches. They kept the flies off the food, but I wondered that they themselves never stopped to eat. No one spoke to them, and they were ignored. I asked Ramakoda who they were.
“Slaves,” he said, putting down his food bowl and licking his fingers clean. “They eat when we’ve finished.”
“Where did they come from?”
“The Hena. After battles, we keep prisoners for slaves. And we trade for slaves, when we meet with other Igaal tribes.”
“Why is there hatred between you and some of the Hena?”
“It’s the old conflict—they try to steal our lands, so we fight.”
People were beginning to leave, now that the meal was over, and Ramakoda stood up, saying, “I’ll go and talk with my father, and do battle with Gunateeta over my daughter. Wish me luck, Shinali woman.”
He limped around to the place where his father was. The holy woman was still there, with a few other members of the chieftain’s family. Again, Ramakoda knelt before his father. I could not hear what he said, but it made the people turn around and stare at me. The holy woman, standing just behind the old man, pointed at me and said some angry words, but I could not make them out. People who were leaving began to turn back, to find out what was happening. The chieftain raised his hand and said, very loudly so all could hear: “Who will heal your child, Ramakoda? Choose carefully.”
Ramakoda replied, “I choose the Shinali woman, Avala, as healer for my child. And as healer for myself, as my cuts need to be sewn up.”
The chieftain gave a command, and a girl brought him a bowl of water. In utter quiet he washed his hands then flicked his fingers hard, shaking off the drops. The bowl was taken away, and people stood around in silence, waiting. They all were watching the holy woman. She spat onto the ground and hobbled away.
Ramakoda bowed again to his father, then came back to me. “The healing of my youngest child, it’s yours,” he said.
“Your holy woman is not pleased about it,” I remarked. “Nor your father, I’m thinking.”
“He does not like crossing Gunateeta. He needs her to pass on her skills, else we shall be without healer and priestess when she dies. So he tries always to keep the peace with her, and she knows it, and holds a little power over him. It is the only power she has, these days.”
“Why does he not command her to teach what she knows?”
“He has, but she said the spirits were angered and would depart unless she chose freely the one to follow in her shoes. And who can argue against spirits?”
“You argued against them,” I said, “in asking for my healing for your child.”
> “I love Kimiwe,” he said. “Love is stronger than fear.” Suddenly he grinned, and added, “Besides, Shinali woman, I’m counting on your munakshi to protect us.”
6
When I was with the Shinali I had the opportunity to help their chieftain, an old man called Oboth, who was in a great deal of pain. I did not heal his illness, for that is incurable; but I did ease his suffering for a time. I felt then that, of all the pains I had ever eased, the soothing of Oboth’s was the most wonderful. In the eyes of my nation, Oboth and his people were my enemies, and yet with them, with the Shinali, I felt only a great peace, even a sense of belonging; and the healing of Oboth was like a greater healing, a healing of age-old enmity and wrongs, a breaking down of walls that were more than pain, more than one man’s disease. It was a healing of hearts, his and mine.
—Excerpt from a letter from Gabriel to his mother, kept and later gifted to Avala
I was nervous, afraid, and worried about the priestess; yet when I knelt beside the child Kimiwe, there was nothing in my mind save pity. She had been terribly neglected. My mother had taught me that cleanliness is vital in healing; it was a thing my father had told her. Yet the child Kimiwe had not been washed or treated in any way, so far as I could tell, and I marveled that her burns had not become infected. Awful wounds they were. Her chest was burned, part of her hair, and one side of her face, though her eyes were spared.
I had her placed on a clean mat near the entrance in the chieftain’s tent, in good light, for the skies had clouded over and it was dim inside. Then I asked for a fire to be lit and water to be boiled, and for the sharpest, finest blades to be brought to me. I asked for the best tendons for thread, fine bone needles, clean cloths, and herbs for making poultices. My request for the plants caused some alarm, for herbs were the priestess’s specialty, and she wanted nothing to do with me. Somehow Ramakoda got from her what I wanted, though I sniffed and tasted all the leaves he brought, to make sure my healing would not be deliberately hindered.