The afternoon was half gone when I was satisfied that all was ready. The honed knives, passed through flame for cleansing, were laid out on clean cloths beside the child, the poultices were prepared, and the child herself carefully washed. Then I asked all to go, save Ramakoda.
For a time I sat by Kimiwe while her father sat on the other side of her, and I prayed and got my mind and heart in harmony with the child’s. Then I leaned over her, my hands on either side of her small body, and pressed my brow to hers. Healing and ease I sent through her, like white light going ahead before I began with the blades. She was all-unknowing, yet I poured light into her mind, too, so that even her dreams and memories would be healed while I worked. Then, no longer aware of anything but the task before me, I washed my hands and began. First I carefully cleaned the burns, then, slicing as thinly as I could, removed strips of flesh from her thighs, which were not burned, and laid them over the raw places of her chest and face. I sewed the new pieces of skin in place and laid across them clean cloths soaked in healing herbs and oils. Over the new wounds on her thighs I placed healing poultices, and bound her well. Then once more I leaned over her, pouring through her all the healing force I owned, and I kissed her face where she was not burned, and said a prayer for her.
I sat back, suddenly flooded over with weariness, and saw that it was night, and it was raining, the drops drumming softly upon the tent roof. Someone had placed burning lamps all around us. A cup of water was put into my hands, and I looked up to see the pledge-son, Ishtok. He crouched by me, his hands linked between his knees, his eyes on little Kimiwe. His clothes smelled damp, and in the lamplight golden raindrops fell from the curling ends of his hair and ran down his skin.
“Your healing, it is different from ours,” he said, glancing up and smiling. It was a slow smile, warm and lingering. “It is different from Hena healings, as well.”
I sipped the water he had given me, and wondered if he knew the change he had made to my pulse. He was beautiful; no doubt all the girls were in love with him. And perhaps he had left broken hearts in the Hena tribe.
“Ramakoda told me you lived with the Hena,” I said. “I would like to hear about the ways they heal.”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. You look tired. I hope you don’t mind, but my brother Ramakoda wants you to sew up his cuts, while you’re about your healing. I’ll help, if you would like me to.”
So Ishtok helped me as I washed the needles and got more clean tendons, and sewed up Ramakoda’s wounds. The cuts had stayed clean, for Ramakoda had kept them clean himself. Ishtok said nothing as I put my hands behind Ramakoda’s head to stop the pain, but while we stitched up the deep cuts he glanced often at Ramakoda’s face, as if he could not quite believe that his brother felt nothing. I noticed that Ishtok’s hands were marked with many small scars. I mentioned them, and he said, “I’m a wood carver. I learned the skill with the Hena.”
“You should take more care,” I said.
“I think not,” he replied, “with a healer like you to stitch me up.”
I had never blushed in my life until that moment, and I covered it by getting up and going to ask Ramakoda’s sister, Chimaki, for fresh binding cloths.
The next morning I woke late to find that the rain had gone and the day was fine, and only Kimiwe and Ramakoda were in the tent with me. He was sitting by his daughter, watching over her. As I checked her burns Ramakoda said, “She slept peacefully all night. But she woke before, and said ‘Bani.’ It is the Igaal word for Father. Then she slept again.”
“She’s healing well,” I said. “Next time she wakes, give her water to drink. She is badly in need of it. Before I go I’ll mix more medicine to stop her pain, and I’ll show you how to look after her. You don’t need to take me home, Ramakoda. I’m well used to traveling on foot, and your daughter’s need of you is greater.”
He said nothing, and I continued, “It will be a few days before you know if the healing has worked or not. If poison gets under the new skin, it will come away and she will be as hurt as before. Worse, because her thighs will be wounded as well, and all for nothing. Let no one touch her but yourself, always wash your hands first, and keep everything here clean. The smallest bit of dirt under the cloths will spoil everything.”
“I’m wanting to ask you something,” he said, his eyes on the child’s face.
“I’m knowing what it is,” I said. “But my people will be thinking I’m dead, Ramakoda. I want to go back to them. Besides, your father said I have to go today.”
“That he did, and I will keep my vow, and take you home. Please show my sister, Chimaki, how to look after my daughter.”
So I showed Chimaki, and she was quick to learn. “I’m thinking I would not mind being a healer,” she said, smiling sideways at me, almost shy. “Perhaps, on one of Gunateeta’s better days, I might ask her to teach me. But I would rather learn from you.” Like Ramakoda, she was tall and big boned, with a pleasant face and an easy way about her. Her long hair was twisted up in a knot such as all married Igaal woman wore, and she had a fine tattoo on her brow. She loved Kimiwe well, and I was sure that the child would heal swiftly under her care. But that afternoon, as I helped Chimaki give Kimiwe medicine for pain, the child vomited and wept, and was a high lot distressed. I took away her pain in the secret ways my mother had shown to me, then sat by her awhile, undecided. I yearned to go home, to put my mother’s mind at rest, for she would be frantic with worry about me; yet I also wanted to ease this child’s long journey through her pain. While I crouched there, anguishing over my decision, Ramakoda came and sat by me.
“I have asked my father if you may stay a few more days,” he said. “And that sits well with him, for he is impressed with what you have done in your healing of me. But the decision is yours, Avala. If you wish to return home now, I will take you.”
I covered my face with my hands. Again I heard Zalidas’s words, heard him call me the Daughter of the Oneness, who would unify all the tribes for war; and felt the great heaviness of his prophecy. I remembered my mother’s words that our destiny is always to do with our highest joy, and how healing was my dream. Again I felt torn between the two, the healer and the child of war, for it seemed to me that they could not be the same thing. I felt confused, destined to walk a road I could not understand. Then suddenly I realized that there was not one road stretching before me this day, but two. One path led home with Ramakoda, leaving open the hope for future friendliness between our two peoples—a path where I would put off finding my destiny until a time to come, a time when I might feel more prepared, more worthy, to be the Daughter of the Oneness. It was the path of delay and self-comfort, an easy path. But the other path was the place of beginning, of stepping out into the darkness, of putting out my hand now toward my destiny, no matter how unprepared or confused I felt, or how afraid. This was the hard path, the frightening path. But perhaps it would be more frightening to never know—to return home now and miss what may be my best chance to begin my destiny. Maybe my only chance.
At last I took my hands down from my face.
I said, “I will stay until Kimiwe is truly well.”
Relief shone on Ramakoda’s face. “May Shimit bless you every day you live,” he said. “I will not forget this, Avala. From this day on, my tribe and yours are at peace.”
That evening Ishtok asked me to sit by him on his family’s feasting-mat. As he offered me a platter of meat so I could fill my bowl, he said, “I promised to tell you about the Hena healers, though I’m thinking that their ways are not as good as yours. I’ve never seen anyone stop pain the way you do.”
“The way I stop pain, that is a Navoran skill,” I said.
“Ramakoda told me your father is Navoran, and that your blue eyes come from him.”
“It’s true,” I said. “My father was a healer, honored among his people. My mother, too, is a healer, and he taught her some of his ways.”
“It must be hard for you, having two bloods,” he said. ?
??Don’t your people hate you for being half Navoran?”
“My father was their hero. He did great things for my people. But it’s still hard, having his blood. They expect me to be a high lot brave, like him.”
“And are you?” he asked, with a sideways look and that slow smile. “Brave, I mean.”
“What do you think?” I said, returning his smile.
“I’m thinking you must be,” he said. “It was brave, what you did to Kimiwe yesterday, knowing she could die if you made a mistake. It was brave, helping an enemy hunter. It was more than brave, going with him into his camp, when you knew his people would hate you.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“That’s a truth. But most of the people here do. Shimit’s teeth—you’re Shinali and Navoran! How much more horrid could you be?”
We laughed, and I liked the quietness of his mirth, the way his shoulders shook while he made soft laughter. I remembered Santoshi and how she and I often laughed together, and I wondered what she would think of Ishtok. I stole a long look at him and saw that the humor still lingered about his eyes, and there was an easiness about him, an openness, that was rare among the youths I knew. I thought Santoshi would like him, too, if she ever met him; his soul, like hers, was arrow straight, and there was no falseness in him.
We were quiet for a time, eating, and then I asked, “Why do your people hate mine? I can understand why you hate Navorans, but the Shinali have done nothing to you.”
He chewed thoughtfully for a while, then said, “We heard how your people made the treaty with Navora, and gave them some of your last bit of land. My father says you gave away your spirit and deserve what happened to you. Myself, I know nothing about your people, as I knew nothing about the Hena before I went to live with them. It is easy to judge from a distance, out of ignorance, but judging fairly, with truth—well, that is harder, and may cost some effort.”
“Tell me about the Hena?”
“They live in the far north, on the edges of the marshlands. They live off fish and marsh birds, and make boats out of reeds. When they move to new territories, they fill each boat with belongings, and carry it slung between two horses. They also carry sick people and little children in the boats that way, when they move.
“When they settle in a place, they build huts out of mud plastered over reeds. There are many Hena tribes, and they fight one another often, because there is not much good land. Some tribes live just by raiding others and stealing their smoked fish and grain, if they’ve managed to grow crops. It’s a hard life, the Hena life. It is made lighter by music and songs, and they are fine dancers. Their storytellers are their priests, and in their stories the Hena history is kept alive.
“My Hena tribe has a priest who is also a seer and prophet. His name is Sakalendu. He is not like our old Gunateeta, who is really only a healer. This Hena priest, he lives face-to-face with the gods and is wise beyond the ordinary wisdom of men. He foretells droughts and floods, and other angry acts of the earth, and gives his people time to prepare for them. He also tells the meanings in dreams. He works with the healer, a woman clever with plants and with the knife, but she cannot do the things you do. She uses mud often, to cake broken limbs until the bones heal, and to stop pains in the elbows and knees. She also uses mud for skin complaints. And she is an excellent midwife. But many people are afraid of her, for she has a bad temper. The Hena women yell at their men, and at their children. They are even worse with one another. It was something I never got used to.”
“Don’t Igaal women get angry?” I asked.
“Yes, but even in anger an Igaal woman must never raise her voice, especially to her husband.”
“The women in my tribe would find that difficult,” I said, making him smile.
He asked, “Do you have a husband in your tribe, Avala?”
“No. My tribe, it’s very small. It’s hard for us to find husbands and wives now who are not of our own kin.”
“We would find that hard in this tribe, too,” he said. “We choose husbands and wives at the Gathering, every other spring. All the Igaal tribes meet together and trade for slaves and horses, and exchange goods, and choose marriage partners. Why don’t your people do that?”
“We don’t have many tribes,” I said. “We are only one. All the Shinali in my home tribe, they are the nation.”
He stared at me, and I felt the disbelief in him. “Shimit’s teeth!” he breathed. “Is that your heart’s truth?”
“Heart’s truth,” I said. “Too many fights with too many enemies have killed nearly all of us.”
“Who do you trade with for horses, carpets, other things?”
“We don’t trade. We don’t have carpets or beautiful chests for our belongings. We have few things, because when we move we must carry everything ourselves, without the help of horses. When our things wear out or break, we cannot replace them. Always, my people long for their own land again, and to build another house such as we had, and to have a place to keep sheep and weave clothes and make pottery. We’re not truly wanderers like your people, Ishtok. Our land is all we had. All we want.”
We fell silent, finishing our food. He was frowning a little, creasing the small tattoo between his brows. Straight his eyebrows were, dark and fine as falcon’s wings, and the tattoo made a graceful link between them.
“At your Gatherings,” I said, “how many tribes are there?”
“About twenty,” he replied. “Many are larger than ours. We cover the plain like stars in the sky.”
“Aren’t you afraid Navoran soldiers will see you all, and attack?”
He laughed softly. “There are so many of us,” he replied, “we’d all only have to spit, and we’d drown the Navorans. They don’t dare come near us.”
“If men choose wives at the Gathering, they choose people they’re not knowing very well?”
“If a man chooses a wife at the Gathering, she comes to live with his tribe for two turnings of the seasons, until the next Gathering, and if they still want to marry each other, then they marry at the Gathering. But if they don’t please each other, she returns to her own family. But our Gatherings last sometimes for two full moons, so we come to know each other well enough to be sure.”
“And you, Ishtok? Have you met a girl you want to marry?”
“In my Hena tribe, I met someone,” he said. “Her name is Navamani.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“She’s a beautiful girl. But I don’t know if it’s my destiny to marry her.”
“Didn’t you ask the Hena priest if it was your destiny?”
“No.” He grinned. “I was afraid to, in case he said it wasn’t. Do you know your destiny, Avala? Sorry—foolish question! Of course you know it: you’re already living it.”
I could not help smiling, for he spoke more truth than he knew.
I finished eating and put down my bowl. To the west, the coppery sun quivered as it slid behind the far mountain peaks. I thought of the evening I had met Ramakoda, and seen the vision in the skies of the eagle and the burning fields. Ishtok, too, watched the sunset, his eyes half closed.
“It’s my favorite thing in all the world, the sun,” he said.
“I think the moon is more beautiful,” I said.
“No—the sun is best! It warms the earth; its light is life to us. It unfurls the leaves on the trees, calls up the grains and the herbs, and opens up the flowers. Your moon can’t do that.”
A slave came and cleared away our bowls, and Ishtok stood up to go. Standing with him, I said, “There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Ask anything you wish,” he said.
“Before I go,” I said, “I must speak with your father about something that is a high lot important. I want all your people to hear it.”
“The only time we all gather to hear a talk is at a council meeting,” he said. “Women are not permitted to speak at such meetings, though they may attend if Mudiwar says so. Would you like me to spea
k on your behalf? That would be acceptable.”
“Thank you, but I need to say the words myself. Will you persuade your father to listen to me?”
“I will try, but it will have to be at the right time, when I know for certain that you are in his favor. What you ask is against Igaal custom.” He gave me a strange look, puzzled and wondering, but asked no questions.
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready to talk to him,” I said, “and would be grateful if you would ask him then.”
Before dark all the women went down to the river to bathe, and I went with them. Only Chimaki talked to me. When we had bathed, we put blankets about our bodies and went back to the tent to dress while the men went to bathe. I discovered what the bowls of charcoal and sweet-smelling wood were for: after dressing, the women stood over the bowls and wafted the sweet smoke up into their clothes and over their bodies, so they smelled good even in the worst of summer’s heat. Chimaki told me that when they were traveling in the desert and had no water for washing, they used only the smoke baths. She also said they had strict rules about men and women not seeing one another naked. I thought of the youths swimming naked in the river by my people’s camp, and of how at night we all stripped by our beds and washed before going to sleep. We were not ashamed of our nakedness, and honored one another, and did not stare. Even the youths and us girls, we did not stare at one another—well, not openly, anyway. I preferred our freer Shinali way.
As darkness fell the men and boys came back, and we all sat together on the soft carpets to talk and tell stories. Ishtok came and sat with me. I was quiet, thinking of home, and he must have taken my silence for sorrow, for he said, with a high lot of gentleness, “It’s hard, being cut off from your own tribe. There were many times, when I was with the Hena, that I wished I could commune with my father. I got so desperate once, I even tied a message to a hawk’s leg and tried to get the bird to fly to my father’s camp.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, it was a good message. I’d drawn my smiling face on a scrap of rabbit skin, so my father would know I was well. The hawk ate the message before it left the Hena camp.”