Secret Sacrament (16 page)

Immediately opposite the Shinali house the waters were placid, but farther west, where the river rushed toward the sea, they were white as they tumbled over rocks and down small waterfalls. Just past the farms the river divided into three, its tributaries cutting deep ravines through the coastal hills. Its most southern branch ran close to Navora and was the city's water supply. But the city could not be seen from here, only the Citadel in the hills, its windows winking in the sun.

There were flat-topped rocks forming a natural bridge across to the Shinali house. Ashila crossed them first, the firewood balanced across her left shoulder, her feet sure and quick. Gabriel removed his boots so his bare feet would have a better hold on the icy surfaces, and followed her. On the other side he sat on the grass and chafed his feet to get the feeling back in them, then pulled on his boots again.

Through the black web of her windblown hair,
Ashila watched him. Never had she seen anyone so fair. His hair was like the wheat at harvest time, his eyes like the sky in high summer. And his rays were green and blue and mauve, the colors of healing and spirit-unity. She had seen Navorans before, the soldiers with their red shadows and their soulless eyes. Even the soldier who had stayed had his shadowed side. But not this man. This man was all light, and beautiful. As he stood he caught her watching him, and his feelings ran like fire across his skin. Ashila smiled, half afraid and wondering, then walked on again.

As they traversed the flat area of grass between the river and the dwelling, and the roar of the waters diminished, another sound came to Gabriel. It was the carefree music of flutes, and the wilder, rasping notes of instruments he did not know. The tune was spirited, and accompanied by laughter and shouts. The flutes were familiar to him, and he touched the bone under his shirt and remembered ancient dreams. But there came to mind, as well, a face. A woman, wounded and imploring. Guilt tore through him, and his heart thundered as he neared the house in the earth.

O
NLY THE THATCHED ROOF
and a small portion of the house wall were above ground level. At intervals along the wall were windows, protected from the weather by wide overhanging eaves. Next to the large smoke hole in the roof was an upturned boat, used to cover the hole in times of snow or rain. The smoke from the outlet blew toward him, winding about him aromas rich with roasting meat and burning wood. He closed his eyes and breathed it in deeply. The smoke was like incense, a holiness, easing his terrors.

Ashila touched his arm, and he opened his eyes. “You don't have to come in, if the noise worries you,” she said, thinking he grieved. “They were sleeping when I left. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” he replied. “I'm not.”

She led him down through the opening in the
ground. They descended a flight of dirt steps, and Gabriel bent his head as he passed under the entrance roof. An air of excitement enveloped him, with smells of fire, smoked fish, dried grass, earth, fish oil, human sweat, and warm wool.

A group of men danced about the central fire, and the rest of the clan sat in a circle around them, clapping. The dance seemed to have no predetermined steps, and the men whirled and leaped, their movements uninhibited and frenzied. It took the clan a few moments to notice Gabriel. Several of the dancers hesitated, and the music missed a beat. Then they continued as wildly as before, while Gabriel and Ashila waited on the lower step.

The women all wore simple woollen shifts painted with primitive designs, and the men were in woollen or leather trousers and sleeveless sheepskin vests. Many of the children, and some of the male dancers, were naked. Several of the men had painted their skin with colored clay or ash, and their decorated ocher-and-blue faces shone weirdly in the firelight. The scene was alien, and for a moment Gabriel's fear returned, and he was all Navoran and in a place he had no right to be. Then he felt Ashila lean close. “They are waking up the strongness in themselves,” she explained, her mouth close to his ear because of the din.
“They're going on a hunt little time. Or a canoe race on the rapids.”

He nodded and relaxed. The music ended in triumphant discord, and everyone cheered.

In the quiet, while a few of the elders whispered and the children giggled, Ashila removed her shoes and left them by the steps with dozens of other pairs. She went to the fire, dropped her bundle of sticks on the hearth, and approached a very old man sitting on the floor. Kneeling in front of him, she spoke in Shinali. Gabriel recognized his own name several times. Some of the adults looked directly at Gabriel, their faces curious but friendly.

Ashila came back to him. “Our chieftain, Oboth, is wanting to talk to you,” she said quietly. “When you greet him, kneel and put your”—she touched his forehead and continued—“on the floor. Then do the greeting I showed you. Don't hold his hand the Navoran way.”

Gabriel removed his boots, left them next to her shoes, and began to follow Ashila across the dirt floor to Oboth. The men who had been dancing moved aside to make a path for him, but no one spoke. The last man in the group moved to let Ashila pass, but then stepped back directly in front of Gabriel. The Shinali was in his mid-twenties, tall and magnificent, with a mass of
black ringlets decorated with beads and leaves. A blue stripe was painted down the center of his face, from his hairline to his roughly trimmed beard, and there were ocher lines on his cheeks. He looked overbearing and fierce, and he considered Gabriel suspiciously, from under lowered lids. He was stark naked, and sweat poured down him from the dance. The paint on his face, mixed with fish oil, smelled rank.

Ashila came back and angrily slapped her right hand hard on the man's chest, as if to push him away. He did not budge. “He's breaking the treaty,” he said in Navoran, his eyes holding Gabriel's. “The farmers, forbidden on Shinali land.”

“He's not a farmer,” said Ashila.

“What is he, then?”

“A high lot better well-mannered than you,” she replied, and several people laughed. “He's my guest,” she added. “Give him way, Tarkwan.”

Tarkwan grunted and stepped aside.

Breathing easily again, Gabriel went and knelt in front of the chieftain as Ashila had told him to do. His action caused an undercurrent of surprise among the people. He made the greeting, then sat cross-legged, as the chieftain was sitting, and waited. He noticed, with a shock, that the chieftain was wearing a bone carving identical to the one he wore himself. Memories rushed over him,
sharp with guilt, and he realized that the Shinali woman he had failed to help had been Oboth's daughter. Anguished, he closed his eyes against the painful childhood images, against the kindliness in Oboth's face.

Seeing the mourning bracelet on Gabriel's wrist, and misreading his obvious distress, the chieftain said gently, “I am sorry for your pain, my friend. I hope the All-father is being kind to the one you mourn.”

“I know he is,” Gabriel replied, looking up at last and studying the chieftain's face.

Oboth was a small, wrinkled man with a decisive expression. He had no hair on his head, and his snowy beard was thin. He looked to be well over eighty years old. Gabriel noticed that the whites of his eyes were an unhealthy yellow, and that he trembled constantly. But in spite of whatever pain he endured, the chieftain smiled warmly.

“What are you, Gabriel,” he asked, “besides well-mannered?”

“I'm a healer,” said Gabriel. “I study at the Citadel. That's the white building standing by itself in the hills.”

Oboth nodded. “We know it. You must be a good healer. Only the best go to the Citadel.”

Embarrassed, Gabriel shook his head. He was
surprised that the Shinali knew about the Citadel. “I'm only learning,” he said. “My Masters—they're the best healers.”

The chieftain smiled again, liking the youth's humility. “Your parents, what farm?” he asked.

“My father died some time ago. My mother and family have the farm nearest the hills, on the other side of the river. It's not the one immediately by the river, but the farm next to it.”

“Good flat land, for crops.”

“Yes.”

Oboth launched into a detailed description of which seasons were best for planting particular vegetables, and Gabriel struggled to understand.

“I'm not a gardener,” Gabriel said finally, when Oboth had finished talking about full moons and sickle moons and new moons. “But I'm sure if you were to visit my mother, she'd welcome you and be very glad of your advice.”

“She'd be a rare Navoran,” said Oboth, with a twinkle in his eye. They talked a little longer, while the musicians started their music again. The children began playing a game, one of them hiding a pebble and the others looking for it, while several elderly women started cooking flat unleavened bread on hot stones in the fire's ashes.

After talking to the chieftain, Gabriel went with Ashila to the far end of the house, where it
was quieter. There he met Ashila's mother, Thandeka, the clan healer, a woman with a forceful, indomitable look like her daughter's, and a warm smile. She asked him about his work at the Citadel and surprised him by knowing Salverion's name. She also knew of Amael, the Master of Herbal Medicines. Gabriel wanted to talk more with her, but others came over to meet him and he was claimed by a group of boys eager to hear about the great city of Navora.

Many spoke Navoran, but in broken words and jumbled sentences. He was moved that they wanted to speak his language at all and asked them to teach him some Shinali words. So they did, laughing when he made mistakes, and applauding when he got words right. Even the ones who could not speak Navoran were eloquent, using hand signs and other mimed movements to communicate with him. They all touched his clothes, fingering the thick quilting of his vest and the fine weave of his shirt. Several of the young women stroked his hair, admiring its alien color, and sniffing at the scent of the soaps he had used. He blushed, far more self-conscious than they were.

An old woman hobbled over and shooed the girls away. “Stop touching him,” she growled, in Navoran. “He's not a horse you're going to be trading for.”

One of the girls said something in Shinali, and the whole clan broke into laughter. “What did she say?” Gabriel asked Ashila, but she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with mirth, and would not tell him.

They were left alone and sat on the dirt floor to watch the men dance again. Examining the interior of the house, Gabriel saw that it was bigger than he had imagined, and dim but for the firelight and the beam of sun streaming through the smoke hole. In the center of the house the fire burned in a large pit lined with stones. Gourds of water, clay bowls, and cooking pots stood on the wide stone hearth. Around the walls of the dwelling was a raised area like a platform, spread with flax matting and covered with blankets traded from Navora, as well as sheepskins and furs. They were the sleeping places. Above them rose the excavated walls, covered with flax woven into patterns, and adorned with the clan's treasures: carvings, drums, bows, and spears. Long wooden beams, gracefully curved, rose from the walls and formed the domed roof, expertly thatched with grass and flax. Through the dimness he glimpsed looms holding partly finished fabrics, and noticed that several people spun wool or flax while they sat talking.

Looking again at the sleeping places, Gabriel
had a strong impression of lying in warm furs with the fire crackling across the room. It was like a fleeting memory, disturbing him, filling him with yearning. So many things here seemed to evoke memories: the weapons that looked familiar though he had never seen them before, the haunting music of the flutes, the mingled sounds of the river outside with the Shinali speech and guttural chanting of old men, and the smells of wool and ash. All were familiar, loved; the stuff of childhood images.

He realized that Ashila was watching him intently, her eyes shimmering in the smoky light, her face very grave. “What's on your mind, Gabriel?” she asked.

“Everything here,” he said. “I dreamed about this place when I was a child. And sometimes since.”

“We believe that when we dream, our soul journeys. Maybe you've been here before, and today was the time chosen for your return.”

“For what reason?”

Her eyes held his, and a beautiful smile crossed her face, as if she recognized something joyful and profound. In that moment he knew she had the Vision. He looked away, afraid in case she saw what drew him here.

Across the room the men had finished dancing
and were wrestling one another, shouting challenges. “They're going to race the canoes,” said Ashila, standing up. “Come and watch.”

With all the clan, they went outside. The people shouted with excitement, and Ashila explained that they were placing bets on who would win. They bet their prized possessions—favorite clothes, spears, painted pottery.

Though the wind remained keen, most of the competitors were naked, obviously intending to stay that way for the rough ride through the rapids. Six canoes lay on the riverbank, two paddles in each. Already the men had divided into pairs, though Tarkwan stood alone. Slowly the tall Shinali picked up a paddle from the last boat and went over to Gabriel. Almost casually he threw the paddle to him. The action was a challenge, and as Gabriel caught the paddle, an uneasy silence fell. The clan watched, squinting against the light, while the wind tugged at their hair and tossed their cloaks.

Ashila said to Gabriel, quietly, “Tarkwan goes the high dangerous way, all times only him. Even our warriors don't like to go in his canoe.”

Gabriel's eyes met Tarkwan's. The Shinali was smiling a little, almost laughing. “The Navorans, they have no bravery,
haii
?” Tarkwan said.

“I'll go with you,” said Gabriel, though his
voice shook. “I was brought up in boats.”

Tarkwan's smile widened. “Are you getting your clothes wet, healer, or are you taking them off?”

Gabriel swallowed nervously. He had not thought of this. Deciding to compromise, he removed only his vest and shirt. As he took off his shirt he remembered the Shinali bone he wore. Carefully he removed the talisman with his shirt, and rolled it tightly into the clothes. He gave the bundle to Ashila and hoped she would not unroll it. Wearing only his trousers and carrying the paddle, he went over to the canoe. It was hewn from a single log, pointed at the bow and stern, and ornately carved.

Tarkwan bent to pick up the bow of the canoe, and Gabriel lifted the stern. “Afraid the women will see you, and laugh?” asked Tarkwan loudly, glancing mockingly at Gabriel's trousers.

“I'm afraid,” Gabriel replied, equally loud, “that if the women see me, they'll be laughing at you.”

The clan roared with merriment, and Tarkwan grinned as they carried the canoe down into the water. The river closed about Gabriel's legs, instantly numbing them. Tarkwan held the boat while Gabriel got in, and gave him instructions. The other canoes were already waiting, the men paddling to hold them stationary in the current.
Oboth stood on the bank, his arms raised. Shivering with terror and cold, Gabriel stared past Tarkwan's back at the foaming water ahead. Then Oboth's arms went down, and the canoes shot forward.

Tarkwan chanted, and Gabriel paddled in time with his rhythm. The work was easy at first, as they sped through the deep pools and skimmed over barely submerged rocks. Gabriel noticed that the other canoes kept close by the shore far to his left. Soon the waters became swift and treacherous, and he fought to keep control, his knees pressed against Tarkwan's back. They plunged through churning rapids, and the last glimpse Gabriel had of the other canoes was of dark shapes still far to his left and falling fast behind. Behind them, too, were the farmlands and the plain. They had entered a steep valley sliced between the hills, and there was no time for anything but watching the seething water and responding to Tarkwan's shouted commands.