“Tell me something, Chimaki,” I said. “The healing Gunateeta did, did it ever work?”
“In time past, she was cunning with herbs,” Chimaki replied. “She could heal fevers sometimes, and was a good midwife. But when it came to injuries or battle wounds, she asked the spirits to help her. Maybe they did try to help, but she could not hear them properly. When Ishtok came back from the Hena, he tried to talk to Gunateeta about their ways of healing, but she got angry and said her ways were good enough. Now we have seen your ways, and I think they are better than any, Hena or Igaal.”
8
My one or two extra days with the Igaal stretched into four, then five, and still I stayed, reluctant to go until all the sick were safely over their fevers and infections. Only one more died, who was beyond my help. Once I went to Gunateeta’s tent and asked her if I could heal her feet, or at least stop her pain, but she swore and threw her medicine bowls at me. Apart from that time I did not see her.
I got to know the members of Mudiwar’s family, especially in the evenings when they gathered in his tent to talk and drink kuba. I learned that Chimaki was the wise one of the family, and that everyone went to her for advice; and that although Ramakoda was honored because he would be chieftain one day, he also caused dissension because he was not afraid to stand alone in his opinions. I noticed that his brother Chro grieved deeply and openly for those in the family taken in slavery, and he would not let anyone put away the sleeping rolls that remained, unused, against the walls, a reminder always that there were kinsfolk missing. But my favorite of all in Mudiwar’s family was Ishtok, with his ready wit and easy way of being. I had never been able to talk with a youth the way I could talk with him, and we passed the evenings discussing the Hena and my people. Often, during our conversations, he carved. He made toys for the children, clever dolls with jointed limbs, and horses that would walk down a gentle slope, and smooth wooden rings for babies to chew on. All the children adored him for the gifts he gave.
One night, when it was a full moon and we were sitting out by the river, just he and I, he asked, “What will happen with your people, Avala? Will they always be wanderers, dreaming of their lost lands?”
“We have more than dreams,” I said. “We have a prophecy.”
And there, under the shining moon, with the music of the river running by, I told him of the Time of the Eagle, and of the day when all our tribes would become one. But I did not tell him of Zalidas’s words over me, or that I was the Daughter of the Oneness. Yet when I had finished speaking he looked at me long and hard, his moonlit eyes half shadowed by his curls, and said, “I’m thinking that you play a part, Avala, in the making of that unity. You must have wondered at your being here, a Shinali healer in an enemy Igaal camp, winning our hearts with the good that you do. Is that why you came—to begin the Oneness?”
“It is a part of it,” I said. “But finding Ramakoda and bringing him home, that was not planned by me.”
“You believe in destiny, then? In the workings of the stars?”
I looked up at the night sky, at the uncountable sparks of light, all in their appointed places, all on their great sky-journey above our lives. “I believe in it,” I said.
He, too, looked up, and said, “Do your Shinali people have names for the stars?”
“We do. That big row of stars over our heads, running east to west, we call that Nakula, the Pathway to the Sun. And that big star burning alone, that is Zathiya. Do you have names for them?”
“Yes, and stories saying how they got there.” He lifted his arm and pointed to a place in the sky near the moon. “See that little red star there?” he said. “We call it the star of destiny. See it?”
I could not. “Come closer,” he said. “Look along my arm. It’s there, between those two near the moon. Can you see it yet?”
My chin was on his shoulder, and I was looking straight along his arm, but still I could not see it. I turned my head, saw his face close, his beautiful moonlit eyes brimming with quiet laughter.
“There is no red star!” I said, drawing back.
“No,” he said, with a wicked smile, “but I got to smell the fragrance of your hair.”
One night, during that time, I had a dream. It began as something wonderful and strong. I dreamed that I was flying high in glowing skies, riding on the back of a giant eagle; but then ominous clouds gathered about, black jagged clouds shaped like Igaal tattoos that wrapped about me, trapping me, and I lost the feel of the eagle’s wings, and knew only darkness and wild forces all around, and a terrible helplessness and fear. I awoke troubled and went straight to the healing tent, thinking that a dreadful thing had happened to those still there. But they were well, and kept on getting well, and after a time I put the dream far back in my knowing and forgot about it.
All my strength, in those days of healing, came from my faith in the prophecy of the old priest, Zalidas, and from my certainty that here, in these days, the Oneness had begun. It was like a mystery within me, a marvel, and it gave my spirit eagle wings. Often in the healing tent I stopped what I was doing, flooded by the astonishment that I was here, in enemy lands, doing a work of healing and restoration, and being honored for it. I was sure that every healing, every pain wiped out, was another thread in the cord that would unite the Igaal with my people.
There was joy in those days, too, apart from the happy times with Ishtok. There was pleasure in seeing the faces of the Igaal women soften and smile as they thanked me and touched my sleeves, which was an expression of gratitude with them. Some put small gifts into my hands. They began to open up the tent flaps of their hearts, and to talk freely with me. One day the chieftain, Mudiwar, came to watch me heal and afterward asked me to cure the old foot wound he had. I could not heal him, but I took away his pain for a morning, and he went on a hunt with the young men and tracked a deer, and came back laughing, full of victory, and walking without a limp.
With growing excitement I thought of my meeting with Mudiwar and my telling of the Time of the Eagle. I imagined my return home with Ramakoda, son of the Igaal chieftain, and how he would greet our chieftain, Yeshi, and how they would offer each other gifts, beautiful cloaks and furs and knives. I thought of the great feast to celebrate my return, and of the speeches and words that would seal the allegiance between our two peoples. I thought of how someday, time to come, I might go with Ishtok to visit his Hena tribe, and tell them of the Time of the Eagle; and of how we all would be drawn into one huge army, and march in triumph to take back the Shinali lands. Visions filled my head and my heart, and I felt a great peace like a cloak about me, and believed it was the All-father’s hand overshadowing me.
In that peace, I went to Ishtok and asked him if he would arrange the council meeting with his father. “I have already spoken to him of it,” said Ishtok. “He did not say yes, or no. I will ask him again. I know he favors you a high lot, since all the sick are well, and you have taught Chimaki many of your skills. Also, Ramakoda is already making preparations for the journey back to your own people. You have not many days left with us.” He smiled, but I felt a sadness in him and wondered if he would miss me.
The next morning a strange wind blew from the south, warm and unpredictable and fitful. We Shinali call that wind the shoorai and believe it brings change. When it blows children become wild and unruly, things go wrong in hunts, animals are restless, and sometimes great and good things have their beginnings. I felt the blowing of the shoorai wind and hoped that it was a good omen for this day.
While the midday feast was being set out I went to see Ramakoda. He was sitting under a tree making arrows, binding the feathers onto the ends of the long shafts. They were beautiful, Igaal arrows, for the feathers were dyed deep blue, and they were bound on with red-stained cord. Our Shinali arrows were dull by comparison.
“I’ve been here fifteen days,” I said, “and I’ve done my heart’s high best for your people. The sick are all out of their fevers, and Chimaki can make any medicines th
at are still needed. I want to go home, Ramakoda.”
He stopped winding the red cord about the arrow shaft and looked up. “I’ve been waiting for these words, Shinali woman,” he said, smiling. “I’m ready for the journey, too. I have gifts for your chieftain, and I’ve finished packing our saddlebags. I hope you won’t mind riding a horse.”
“So long as we don’t race,” I said, laughing.
“I thought you’d want to gallop like the wind,” he said. “But it’s as well; I’ve a gentle mare for you, guaranteed not to bolt. We can leave in the cool of this evening, before the meal, and be on the far side of the hills by nightfall. We’ll ride under cover of darkness, and be with your people by sunup. But first, we must speak with my father.”
“Ishtok has already arranged a council meeting,” I said. “After we have eaten, I have something to say to Mudiwar. I want all your tribe to hear it.”
“Women don’t speak at Igaal councils,” said Ramakoda. “Not even Gunateeta in her better days.”
“Ishtok is hoping that your father will allow it, since I have healed so many of his people.”
“We shall see,” said Ramakoda.
He placed a cloth over the feathers and the work he was doing, so the wind would blow nothing away, weighting it all down with stones. Then together we went to the feasting-mats. I sat with his family, with Mudiwar and Ishtok and Chimaki and the others I had got to know.
I was too excited to eat. Excited, and fearful. As always Ishtok sat by me for the meal, but for once we did not talk much. Whenever our eyes met, his face became grave, his gaze full of understanding and empathy. He, too, had known the weight of being ambassador in an alien tribe, of vital gatherings and talks. It seemed an age before the meal was over. Usually old Mudiwar stood up and banged his stick three times on the ground, as a sign that the meal was finished and everyone could disperse; this day a slave came with a small gong hanging vertically in a framework of sticks. There were charms tied about the gong, small carvings, and flags with black sharp-angled signs on them. The flags fluttered in the gusty wind, and the charms clattered as the chieftain banged the gong with a special stick. At the throbbing the people stopped talking, and those on other mats turned to face the chieftain and his family. Those far off came closer and sat on the grass under the trees, where they could hear. When everyone was settled Mudiwar stood up.
“The Shinali woman has healed many of us,” he said, “even snatching some of us back from the shadow lands. We owe her our thanks. My son Ishtok has said that the Shinali woman has a word for us. It is not customary for a woman to speak at a meeting such as this. But neither is it customary for a Shinali to be in our camp, or for us to have a healer of such skill. I will permit her to speak.”
A ripple of surprise went through the company, and Mudiwar raised his hand for silence. Then he sat down. He was holding his long stick and had Gunateeta’s holy red banners tied to it to keep out evil spirits. Ishtok had told me that the priestess was dying, else for this important gathering she would have been here, too. Ramakoda gave me a nod, and I went and sat beside the chieftain, not facing him directly, but turned so that all the people would hear what I had to say. The faces before me were grave, expectant. I wished I could stop shaking. So much hung on this hour, on my words.
Mudiwar said, “Our ears, they are listening, Shinali woman. Speak.”
For the space of a few heartbeats I bent my head, asking the All-father one final time for wisdom. All about me was a deep silence. And in that silence a huge peace came upon me, a power, and I felt again the force of all that Zalidas had spoken over me, that last night at home. All the fine words that Yeshi had said of my father, they uplifted me. Every fond touch from the elders, because I was their hero’s child, every story of our past, of our future, our vision of final liberty—all of it bore me up, as if on wings. I could hardly breathe, for the awe. Taking a deep breath, I lifted my head. The shoorai wind blew about me, steady for the moment, empowering.
“In the beginning,” I said, “when the first winds blew across the earth, and the leaves unfurled on the first trees, and the father of all deer grazed the plains, and the first eagles flew, the All-father made my Shinali people for our land. . . .”
And so I told our history, and there was not a sound in all that company while I spoke. Even when I came to the part about our prophecy, and told how my people and the Igaal and the Hena would be united, there was no sound. Of my father I told, of the Emperor Jaganath, of the time of my people’s Wandering. I finished, my words carrying clear and strong in that vast quiet: “But with every rising of the sun the ancient prophecy burns anew in our hearts; and with every rising of the moon we dream of our lost land. For the land is our life, our hearts’ home, our place of belonging. In it lies our freedom and our peace. So we wait for the day of our return. We wait for the Eagle’s Time.”
For a few moments there was silence. Then the murmuring began again, and some of the people shouted. They sounded angry. I could not tell from Mudiwar’s face what he thought.
Ishtok lifted a hand, and his father nodded to him to speak. Ishtok said, “I ask you to remember, my father, that I have told you of the seer-priest with my Hena tribe, whose name is Sakalendu. He foretells a time of change to come, that will alter all our world. The All-Sweeping Wind, he calls it. This belief does not belong only to the Shinali but to the Hena as well.”
Again, people talked behind their hands.
I said, “I remind you, Mudiwar, that this prophecy is known also to the Navorans. My people have, as chief treasure, a letter from the Navoran Empress to my father. It has words about the Eagle’s Time, and how it will mean a new life for the Navorans, too, and an end to the evil in their Empire. Three nations believe in the Eagle’s Time—my people, and the Navorans, and the Hena.”
“Avala speaks true,” said Ramakoda. “I hold this prophecy to be a true foretelling of what might be, if we all will bend our bows to it.”
“If we were meant to be a part of it,” called out an old man, “wouldn’t Gunateeta have told us?”
“Old Gunateeta couldn’t foretell water boiling over a fire,” said one of the youths, and there was laughter.
Mudiwar banged his stick, and we waited for him to speak. At last he said, speaking directly to me, “As I see it, Shinali woman, this prophecy is all about your people getting back their miserable bit of dirt. You think I care about that?”
I was dumb, trying to think of a reply.
“It’s about more than that, my father,” said Ramakoda. “The Time of the Eagle would mean the end of Navoran supremacy.”
“Since when were the Navorans supreme over us?” shouted an old man. “We live free. Let the Shinali fight their own battles. They got into their mess with the Navorans—let them get themselves out of it!”
There were shouts of agreement. Then Ramakoda spoke. “You say that the Navorans aren’t supreme?” he said, looking across to the old man who had last called out. “You say we live free?”
“We’ve always been free, my son,” said Mudiwar, and the elders nodded their heads.
Ramakoda stood up. “Have you all forgotten, so soon?” he cried. “Have you forgotten our kinsfolk taken in slavery? Our women and children still captives in the stone city? The ones who died fighting to save them? Have you forgotten how, not many winters past, we fled time and time again before the soldiers who hunted for us? Have you forgotten already this summer’s battle, and the two and forty of our kin who were captured? And you want to be satisfied with this, and call it freedom? Where’s their freedom—the ones who are slaves? Where is the freedom of your wives, your husbands, your brothers, your sisters, your children? Where is the freedom of my two sons? Where’s the freedom of those who walk already in the shadow lands? The ones who sit among us now, with pieces sliced off their bodies, some of them blind or lamed? Is this our freedom?”
The tribe broke into an uproar, some agreeing with him, others shaking their heads. Mudiwar banged
his gong, but it was a long time before they were quiet.
“My son Ramakoda asks if we have forgotten,” Mudiwar said. “I have forgotten nothing. Always there have been wars. The Hena we’ve fought, times past, and the Shinali. Now we fight the Navorans. Time to come, there will be new enemies. We heard this night, from Avala’s own lips, that once the Shinali were a great nation, and it’s the fault of the Navorans that they are a small tribe now, with nothing. But I say it’s the Shinali people’s own fault. I say they are diminished because of their own stupidity and weakness. They were the only ones who signed a treaty with Navora, the only ones to trade off some of their precious land, the only ones to live in the very shadow of the stone city. That is why they lost their soul strength—they gave it away. Well, we will give away nothing. We will fight for what we have, if we are attacked. We will defend ourselves. We will guard the freedom that we have. But we will not be wiped out because we are foolish.”
“My father, the Shinali are not foolish,” said Ishtok. “They are a people who have been much wronged against.”
“The Shinali are fools!” shouted Mudiwar. “They made a treaty with traitors! They got nothing but trouble for it. Now they have a crazy dream, and they want us to believe in it. Well, I will not. I will not invite the full wrath of the entire Navoran army down on our heads, and risk wiping out our nation, just so the Shinali can sit in their own dirt. I will not be a fool and lead my people to calamity, just because a prophet coughs up a crazy dream. I will not get caught up in the madness of the Shinali, lest we all end up like them—a wasted tribe of outcasts, with nothing but regret and foolish dreams.
“I will not talk of this matter again. I have wasted enough breath on it. This is my final word.” He struggled to his feet and banged his stick, the sign that the meeting was over. People began to talk, to stand up to go. I sat where I was, numb. In disbelief I saw the Time of the Eagle fade like smoke, blown away by an old man’s word.