Secret Sacrament (17 page)

Thunder filled his ears and the canoe pitched, tilting, over the edge of a waterfall. There were breathtaking seconds of weightlessness, then turmoil as the boat hit the water again. Icy forces surged over them and Gabriel thought, in that strange timeless calm at the core of supreme danger, how ironic it was that one half-mad
Shinali should accomplish what the most cunning men in the Empire had failed to do. But he did not die; the canoe bounded up into the light and rushed on again.

Tarkwan's arms worked powerfully, the paddle flashing in the sun in time to his chant. Sweat and water poured down him, and he punctuated his chant with shouts of pure pleasure. Without realizing it Gabriel shouted with him; then they were plummeting down another waterfall, and beyond that through deep swirling pools. Gabriel roared at Tarkwan in fury as the canoe spun fast, seemingly out of control, and overhanging rocks flashed perilously close to their heads. Then they shot forward again, fast as an arrow, the waters thundering about them. Suddenly the river widened, became flat and quiet, and the race was over.

They were the first through. Risking a glance behind him now, Gabriel saw four of the other canoes still battling the last rapids, close to the far shore. A canoe had overturned under the second waterfall, and the men had abandoned it and were downriver, swimming ashore where the waters were easier.

Breathing hard, exultant, Gabriel and Tarkwan paddled to the shore, then carried the canoe up onto the stones. As they emptied the water out
of it, Tarkwan said: “Not bad work, for a well-mannered Navoran.”

“A mad Navoran, you mean,” said Gabriel, his teeth chattering. He was blue with cold and shaking so much he could hardly talk, but his grin was as big as Tarkwan's.

They were met by people who had walked here earlier, bearing blankets and clothes. At first the group was disconcerted to see Gabriel, but they greeted him courteously, since he had paddled in Tarkwan's canoe, and congratulated him. Because they had not expected a newcomer, there were no dry trousers for Gabriel; but they gave him a thick blanket and a sheepskin jacket painted with Shinali designs. Still shivering, Gabriel stood beside Tarkwan and watched the other canoes finish. Tarkwan hugged his friends as they came ashore, and he and Gabriel graciously accepted their praise.

Carrying the canoes, they started the long walk back, keeping to the pebbly shore along the steep river valley, then skirting the farms and crossing the grasslands toward the Shinali house. It was late afternoon when they got back. People ran to meet them, and when they were told who had won, there were hugs and cheers. Gabriel found himself going from one embrace to another. All the young people hugged him, kissing both his
cheeks and laughing at his blue lips, and the elders congratulated him in Shinali, briefly touching his chest with their palms.

He looked for Ashila. She was standing a little way apart from all the excitement, her arms about an elderly woman who could only shuffle along. But she smiled at him, her dark eyes fervent and admiring, and she got the color back in his face again.

In the house he found his shirt and vest exactly as he had rolled them, but warming on the hearth. Tarkwan's younger brother, Yeshi, pressed a pair of trousers into his arms. The trousers were soft brown leather painted with red-and-black animals and were Yeshi's best. Gabriel thanked him, found a quiet space near the sleeping platform, and removed the Shinali jacket and his own soaking trousers. Entranced by his pale skin, a group of children stood watching him, creeping closer and closer, until he felt little fingers in his hair and down his back. He tolerated them until they got too familiar, then he growled suddenly like a dog, and the children fled, shrieking and laughing. He pulled on Yeshi's trousers and his own shirt and vest, luxuriating in the warmth. Unobserved, he hid the bone carving inside his shirt. When he went back to the fire a woman took his leather trousers and hung them over a
stick to dry. He thanked her, found a space by the hearth, and sat there to thaw out.

Tarkwan offered Gabriel a drink of wine in a rough clay bowl. “It was part of the payment for the land,” Tarkwan explained, sitting beside him. “The best Navoran wine, they said.”

Gabriel tasted it; it was like vinegar. “To the river,” he said, raising the bowl. “And to excellent canoes.”

As Tarkwan lifted his bowl as well, Gabriel noticed a blue spiral tattooed on the Shinali's left breast. He stared at it, old memories flashing back. He saw the Shinali woman again, wounded on the rocks; the spiral tattoo on her breast; and her face, beautiful and strong, and so like Tarkwan's. She had been his sister. Again remorse and fear tore through Gabriel.
He'd kill me if he knew,
he thought.

Tarkwan finished his wine in a few thirsty gulps, then wiped his hand across his dripping chin. “It's good wine?” he asked.

“Not the best,” Gabriel replied.

Tarkwan laughed, but the sound had a bitter ring. “They cheated us,
haii
?” he said. “Navoran dogs.”

Other people sat down to drink. Besides the wine, pottery bowls of hot herbal tea were passed around. Offered, too, were the flat cakes
of steaming bread. Relaxing a little, Gabriel realized that he was hungry. After the bread came warmed meat and generous chunks of smoked fish. There were vegetables, too: yellow roots cooked in ashes, and salads made of cress and wild mint. The musicians started playing again, and people began to sing. Since they sang between mouthfuls of food and sometimes while chewing them, the sound was not consistent or wonderful, but Gabriel enjoyed it. Several times he thought of Myron, and a tight feeling went across his chest. But most of the time he forgot, and listened to the flutes and singing and talk, cherishing the rambunctious company. Often he sought Ashila and glimpsed her talking to friends or feeding someone's child, or just sitting across the fire observing him. Many times their eyes met, and they smiled; and there spun between them something fine and strong and unforgettable.

When the feasting was finished, a crowd of children dragged Gabriel over to the sleeping platform, gave him a bowl of thick black dye and a point of deer antler, and begged him to paint canoes on their clothes and to make his own sign. When finally they raced off, splattered with black dye and with Gabriel's initials and wobbly canoes on their chests, their hero pulled on his boots and went outside to find Ashila.

B
EHIND THE
S
HINALI HOUSE
he discovered the holes used for latrines concealed by a group of trees and, beyond that, a stone enclosure obviously used to shelter the sheep at night. Now the sheep were out on the plain, guarded by children. Each young shepherd carried a sling, and fired tiny stones to keep sheep from straying. Never striking the sheep, the pebbles hit the dirt beside the animal's heads, startling them back toward the flock. Gabriel admired the shepherds' skill.

Close to the house, on the side nearer the farms, were vegetable gardens. Gabriel saw Ashila working there, beside the old woman he had seen her with after the canoeing. The woman was laughing to herself as she shuffled between the cabbages, and Gabriel realized that she was sick in her mind. Seeing Gabriel, Ashila stood
up and came to meet him.

“She's in her own world,” Ashila explained, looking across to the old woman, still chuckling and talking to herself. “Her name's Domi. She knows nothing in this world, except the garden. All times, she's being with her children, though they're dead.”

“At least she's happy,” said Gabriel, and Ashila nodded. He added, with regret in his voice, “I have to go home now; I'm sorry. My family needs me.”

She looked disappointed, though she smiled. “I'm being sorry, too,” she said. “Will you be visiting us again?”

“I don't have to go back to the Citadel until the day after tomorrow. Could I come tomorrow? I could return Yeshi's trousers.”

“You are not needing a reason to come,” she said.

Together they went into the house, and he got his damp trousers from the stick by the fire, then said good-bye to Oboth and other members of the clan. They urged him to stay longer, but when he said he had to go, they looked at his mourning bracelet and understood. Ashila walked with him to the edge of the Shinali land.

“I wish we could have had more time to talk, you and I,” Gabriel said.

“There's a time for all things.”

He wanted to tell her that there was no time—that these hours, and maybe an hour or two tomorrow, were all they had; but he could not.

“Sometimes,” she said, “it's not the longness of a time that matters, but the goodness in it. And your time here is good.”

“It's good for me, too,” he said. “I needed it. I needed your Shinali ways.”

“Tell me on your ways, Gabriel. On your life. What it's like to live Navoran.”

So he did, and she listened, often laughing in amazement, sometimes putting her hand on his arm as a sign for him to stop and explain. Laughing and talking, their heads close, with Gabriel sometimes gesturing in signs, they came to the fence that bordered the first farm. Here the farmers had built a stone bridge across the river, for themselves and wagons to cross. Gabriel and Ashila were so intent on conversation, they did not notice at first that someone waited on the bridge. Then Gabriel looked up and saw Ferron. The keeper was wearing a hooded cloak, wrapped tight against the chill air, and he looked tense and agitated.

“I was worried about you,” Ferron said angrily, striding down off the bridge and coming over to them. His sword, swinging at his side, glinted in
the pale afternoon sun. “But I see my concern was unnecessary.”

“This is Ashila,” said Gabriel, resenting Ferron's attitude. “Ashila, this is my friend Ferron.”

Ferron pushed back his hood and studied the young woman's face. Her eyes still shone from laughter, and her cheeks were flushed. “Greetings, Ashila,” Ferron said. “You've obviously cared for him well. He looks happy enough, in spite of his grief.”

Ashila did not know what to say to that, so she whispered good-bye and turned to go. Gabriel caught her hand. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Does it matter when I come?”

“All times, you are welcome,” she said, smiling again, though her eyes looked past him to Ferron and were wary.

“I'll come in the afternoon.”

She nodded, and her fingers tightened briefly about his before they parted. He watched her go, walking quickly with that easy grace of hers, then he turned and began walking back to the farm with Ferron.

“There was no need to come after me,” Gabriel said. “I was fine.”

“Were you?” asked Ferron. “Why are you wearing Shinali pants?”

“Mine got wet. I went canoeing.”

“Good God, man!” cried Ferron. “We were watching the canoes! That ride was suicidal! Have you gone mad?” He glanced back at Ashila and muttered, “Don't answer that.”

“It was a race,” said Gabriel. “I was challenged by the chieftain's son. I had to take part.”

“And I have to look after you. I risk my own life to guard you against Jaganath. I don't know why I bother, when you rush off and invite the Shinali to do the job for him.”

“You're going too far, Ferron.”

“That makes two of us.”

They walked for a while in silence, rapidly, then Ferron said: “You know you won't ever see her again.”

“I don't need a lecture.”

“Someone's got to tell you. You're making an idiot of yourself, Gabriel. You came here for your brother's funeral, and you end up fooling around with a native girl. What is it between you and the Shinali? I bet it's something to do with that damned amulet—”

“Enough!” shouted Gabriel, gripping the front of Ferron's cloak. “You've said enough!”

Ferron shook him off, and they stood looking across the Shinali land, their breathing deep and their breath misty in the cold air.

“I'm sorry,” said Ferron quietly. “I'm concerned,
that's all. I don't want to drag you back to the Citadel lovesick.”

“You won't.”

“That look you had when you said good-bye to her—it was just brotherly affection?”

“Yes.”

Ferron looked at him sideways, his green eyes dancing with humor. “You're a bad liar, brother.”

It was midafternoon when Gabriel visited the Shinali the next day. The children saw him coming and ran to meet him. The women, gathering in their washing from where they had spread it on the grass to dry, stood up and called greetings to him. There were no men about. As Gabriel passed the garden he noticed old Domi working alone there, laughing and chatting joyfully to her dead loved ones.

Ashila was on the riverbank, placing fresh fish in the smokehouse the Navoran soldier had helped the Shinali build. It was like the smokehouses Gabriel had seen as a boy, on the beach near his father's boats. Leaving her friends to finish the task, Ashila washed her hands in the river and came up to meet Gabriel. She pressed her hand against her own chest, then his. Then, laughing because they both moved at exactly the
same moment to do it, they shook hands the Navoran way.

“I've brought these back, for Yeshi,” he said, giving her the trousers.

“He'll be thanking you. Will you come and have a drink with us?”

He wanted to spend all the time today alone with her, but knew nothing of Shinali traditions of hospitality or welcome, and was afraid of offending. So, accepting her offer, he followed her into the house. The older women had already boiled water and made their pungent herbal tea. They sat about the hearth and chatted to him while they drank, and if they spoke Shinali, Ashila interpreted. Sometimes Gabriel misunderstood and gave answers that sent them into peals of laughter. He laughed with them, feeling embarrassed but never humiliated, self-conscious because he was the only adult male present.

“The men are in the forest, hunting deer,” an old woman explained. “Smoked fish, we're being tiring of it, after the snowtime. And all the old sheeps, we've eat.”

“I told my mother about your smoked fish,” Gabriel said. “The farmers would like to trade, your fish for their goats. Soon they want to farm sheep and cattle. Maybe then you could trade for beef.” They looked bewildered, so he added,
“Red meat, different from deer.”

They talked of various foods, and the women explained what herbs they used and where they found them. Children brought some of the herbs to show him, tricking him into eating the bitterest leaves, and laughing at the faces he pulled. And all the time they touched his unfamiliar fine-woven shirt, and stroked his pale hair and skin.

Afterward, when he and Ashila went outside again, she asked, “Would the champion like to come for a walk today? Or, if you're thinking that's too dull, we could take spears and hunt mountain lions.”

“A walk with you sounds a high lot exciting,” he replied.

A crowd of children begged and howled to come with them, but Ashila sent them back, promising to tell them stories that night if they were obedient. Reluctantly, the children stayed. Walking close to the river, Gabriel and Ashila set off toward the mountains. Again he was struck by her unaffected beauty and grace, and last night's dreams paled in the light of her presence. He tried not to stare at her, concentrating instead on the view before them. Directly ahead, where the river cut through the ranges, was the gorge where the Taroth Fort had been built. Gabriel
remembered the conversation at Jaganath's house.

“Does the Navoran army go through your land often?” he asked.

“The last time was two summers past. They get prisoners from the Hena tribes, or the Igaal, on the far side of the mountains.”

“Why didn't those tribes sign a treaty, the way your people did?”

“It would have been hard for them to sign a treaty; their tribes are too many, too . . .” She flung out her hand, as if scattering grain.

“Widespread?” he suggested.

“Yes. Too widespread. They're nomads, following deer herds. They attacked us sometimes, for slaves. Warlike, they were. They attacked the Navorans too, so our storytellers say, while the stone city was being built. To stop them coming through the mountains, the Navorans made Taroth Fort. That was long time past, even before our chieftain, Oboth, was born.”

“And your people—were they warlike?”

“Not at first. We were fisherfolk, full of peace, and a great people. The coastlands were ours—all the land, this side of the mountains. The Navorans came, and for a time we lived together, our boats on the water side by side. And side by side we fought the Igaal and the Hena, before the fort was made. But the Navorans grew, became strong and
too many, and wanted our waters and our lands for themselves. They broke holes in our fishing boats and sank them, and made life hard for us. Then we became warlike. Then we fought hard battles—for our waters, our land, and our lives. Oboth was a great warrior in those days, and he and the old ones, they still have the scars. But the Navorans killed many of us, and the ones left they beat back to this plain, to this last place before the mountains and the desert lands of our enemies. Trapped between two foes, we were. In the end we made peace with the Navorans and settled here by the river. The soldiers in Taroth Fort protected us from the Hena and Igaal, but also they watched us, like a lion watches the deer. We were never easy, under their eyes. After a time, they left the fort.”

“Was that when you signed the treaty?”

“The fort was empty three, maybe four summers, before we made the treaty. When I was being a little girl, Oboth signed it. It made strong our peace, and said forever we keep our land. But all we have now is this plain, and our people are not great anymore. We become less and less. Eight winters past there was a bad sickness. It came soon after the Navoran trader came. It killed nearly us all who were left. Now there are only ten times ten of us. That's how many the soldier
counted. Since, some have died, some been born. One houseful now, that's all.”

“That sickness must have been the bulai fever. The trader should have known better than to come here, with the disease in Navora. What was he trading?”

“Blankets, for smoked fish. He had his family, old ones and children. He was going on a journey, he said, far and far from the city. He didn't say things on the fever.”

“Was he the only one who crossed your plain?”

“No. There was a high lot of them, but they didn't visit us. Most stayed on the old road, where you ran yesterday. They were going over the mountains.”

“There's no fever now,” he said, “but it comes every six or seven years and is due again. If you see many people leaving Navora, don't have anything to do with them.”

“This fever,” she said, “what are its signs?”

“I've never seen it. But Salverion, my teacher, says it looks like other sicknesses, and is very hard to recognize. That's why it's often widespread before it's found. The only symptom that gives the plague away is gray patches deep in the back of the throat. Once you see those, you know it's bulai fever.”

“How does it spread?”

“Very quickly, in the spit and in the blood, and it always kills.”

“One man killed nearly all our people?” she asked.

“Maybe. I don't really know. But it seems that way.”

“Just as well our house is being in the middle of the grasslands,” she said. “It's a long way to spit, even for a Navoran.”

They laughed, then walked in silence for a while, looking at the savage ravines and snowy peaks ahead. In the gorge dividing the ranges, the ancient fort looked huge and impressive, its sheer walls the same tawny color as the mountain rock. As he looked at it, Gabriel asked, “Where would your people go, Ashila, if you didn't have the plain?”

She shrugged. “The mountains are too hard and dry. Not good for farming or growing vegetables. And the Hena and Igaal are still unfriendly. Yet there are old prophecies that say time to come we'll leave our land and go to the lands of the Igaal and Hena, and become one with them, and make a great nation again. The old prophets said other things, too.”