Treespeaker (5 page)

He’d spent the long night willing his father to live, forcing his own energy through the healing stone, to no avail. As the sun rose, his father clasped Jakan’s hand as if trying to pass his life to his son, and breathed his last.

If not for Kattan then, Jakan’s confidence may never have been regained, for what sort of Treespeaker couldn’t even save the life of his own father? It was Kattan who showed him that being a Treespeaker was not about being able to control life and death, but about being able to help guide his people from one end of life to the other.

“You can plant a tree, young one,” Kattan had said, “you can tend and water it, trim away branches and stake it against the wind. But you can’t make an elm grow into an oak. And no matter how strong it is, you cannot stop a lightning strike from splitting it in two, or age from making it fall.”

“Father wasn’t old, yet his heart failed him.”

Kattan had put his hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Jakan, you'll soon learn that the gift you received as Treespeaker was more a gift to the people of Arrakesh than a gift to you. Every time you use your healing power, every time you speak with Arrakesh, you lose a little of yourself. Your father hadn't lived many years, that is true, but his body had aged. You, too, will grow old before your time. But what you lose physically, you’ll gain in personal and spiritual strength. That's the way for the Treespeaker.”

The words both disappointed and angered Jakan at the time. He rebelled, vanishing into the forest for days. That time gave him a chance to grieve, to think, to come to terms with the situation into which he had been thrown. When he returned, Kattan had greeted him without displeasure or rebuke. His days away were never mentioned.

Now Kattan, this strong tree that had given him shelter for so long, was about to be felled by age and there was nothing Jakan could do. That knowledge sat like a stone on his chest and today he did indeed feel old.

With visible effort, Kattan spoke. “No drama tonight, young one.”

 “No drama.”

Kattan shut his eyes for a moment, recouping some strength. Reaching out his hand and placing it on the old man’s chest, Jakan could feel the life ebbing and hated that he could do nothing to save him. He had to stand and watch the tree fall. He wanted to pull away, but forced himself to draw some of the pain into his own body, to ease his friend’s breathing.

Kattan smiled his thanks without opening his eyes. “Chief Elder?”

Jakan squirmed. He couldn't lie to Kattan, but what could he tell him? That he'd gone so mad that he even saw himself as able to take the Chief Elder’s place?

He was still struggling for an answer when Kattan spoke again. “Believe. It’s you.”

Jakan stared at him.

The old man gave a tiny smile. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“How could you know?”

“I know it should be you.”

 “It’s impossible, you know it is! I’m Treespeaker. There’s no one else. I can’t be both.”

The old man took a few deep breaths. “But Arrakesh has spoken…”

“I really do think I’m losing my mind. I don’t understand Arrakesh any more!”

 In his determination to speak, Kattan struggled for breath once more. “Perhaps you…do understand,” he managed between gasps. “Just don’t… want…to believe.”

Jakan squeezed the old man’s hand. “I’m going to miss you, old one.” The words seemed so inadequate.

Kattan gave a slight nod. “Arrakesh!” he whispered.

Yes,
Jakan thought,
you'll be part of Arrakesh, but it won’t be the same. I need your friendship more now than I ever have, but you’re leaving.
He began to fuss with the fur cover, straightening it across Kattan’s chest.

Suddenly the old man grasped Jakan’s arm. “Megda!”

Jakan nodded and began to move away to fetch her, but Kattan pulled him back. He beckoned for Jakan to move closer. “I heard it… the hawk… yesterday!” His whisper was almost inaudible. “Be careful…of the stranger…. young one!”

Jakan bent to place a kiss on the old man’s forehead. “I will.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Farewell, old one. May you fly swift to Arrakesh.”

His throat dry and tears stinging at his eyes, Jakan left the room and sent Megda back to her husband.

Two mornings later at sunrise, Jakan followed the stretcher bearing the body of his old friend up the hill to Padhag Klen. The grief of the whole village rested on his shoulders. Every sniff and sigh of the other mourners echoed in his ears and he was acutely aware of Jalena and Kelsha urging Megda on just behind him. He wished he could offer his help, but his focus must be on the Farewell ahead. He pushed his own grief deep down. He would have to deal with it later.

The time since Kattan’s passing blurred in Jakan’s memory. He had sat with the body while the villagers came to pay their respects. Most needed comforting, for Kattan had touched many lives. Usually, Jakan found this part of his role as Treespeaker rewarding. This time, he wished himself somewhere else, being allowed to grieve as he wished.

Last evening, he and Megda had made Kattan ready for his journey into Arrakesh with travelling clothes, knife and tool pouch, a labour of love and a welcome chance for them to be alone. He murmured his final goodbye as he covered the body with a bearskin, the symbol befitting the great leader Kattan had been, and let Megda shed the tears he so longed to let fall.

In Arrakesh, death made all equal, yet to Jakan, Kattan would always stand out from the rest in his memory. He wished for the thousandth time since Kattan’s death that he could have saved him, but Kattan’s journey had come full circle. No Treespeaker could change that fact. He had to keep telling himself that.

At Padhag Klen, Jakan and the stretcher stopped, while the villagers circled to surround them. With a signal from Jakan, the stretcher-bearers lowered their load to the ground directly in front of The Tree. As they stepped back into the crowd, he raised his hand for silence. Gradually the sound of coughing and feet stamping against the cold died down, and silence fell. Even the awakening birds seemed to stop their chatter. Jakan threw back the hood of his cloak. He glanced at Megda for a moment, joining her in shared grief.

“People of the Fifth Tribe of Arrakesh, we’ve come this morning to farewell a great man. A man who has led this tribe without fear or favour for over twenty years. A man who will be sadly missed by the whole tribe, especially by his wife, Megda, and by all those who loved him. He was a good friend as well as a great leader, and whoever replaces him will have a hard task to emulate him.”

The crowd murmured their agreement and Jakan felt the sting of his own hypocrisy. He had mentioned to no one, not even Jalena, his vision of himself as Chief Elder. He couldn’t.

“I have no doubt,” he went on, “that Kattanbek’s journey to Arrakesh will be swift. He has followed the Way of Arrakesh faithfully and without question. We will miss him…” Jakan’s voice began to waver and he swallowed hard, “but he will never be far away from us. Today he will be one with Arrakesh, who is always here and will always be here, long after we are all gone from this world.”

“Praise to Arrakesh!” the villagers said in unison.

Jakan beckoned for the stretcher-bearers to move forward. Two young men moved to either end of Kattan’s body and, on Jakan’s signal, lifted him from the stretcher. Two others quickly moved in and took the stretcher away. Gently   Kattan was lowered, still covered by the bearskin, onto the soft leaves of the forest floor.

Jakan moved forward and stood over the body.  One by one the villagers came, stooping to lift a leaf from the ground and laying it on the bearskin. Arrakeshi mourning ran like a slow moving river, quiet and deep. Faces were tense, restraining emotions with difficulty. Many were red-eyed and pale. Even Grifad’s usual ruddy complexion had faded. The children looked around wide-eyed with wonder at the spectacle of grief.

As the last leaf landed on the bearskin, Jakan raised his hands over Kattan. “Farewell, Kattanbek, son of Nipatbek, husband of Bekmegda, Chief Elder of the Fifth Tribe… good friend.” It took effort to keep the tremor from his voice. “Watch over us. Guide our way.” He closed his eyes for a moment in a vain attempt to stop the tears that welled. He could hear Megda’s sobs now being joined by others.

Swallowing hard, he continued,

“Arrakesh,

You are wind,

You are bird’s song,

Dew on morning grass,

Velvet on deer’s horn,

Shelter from rain,

Warmth of fire,

In us,

Around us,

Beginning to end.”

Taking a deep breath, he held his hands, palms together in front of his chest. “Kattanbek, fly swift to Arrakesh, your home.” As he spoke, he moved his hands apart, stretching his arms out wide. At this signal for departure, Jakan heard a communal drawing in of breath.

Silently, the body-shaped mound beneath the bearskin began to disappear. Arrakesh was taking his own back to him. Within seconds, nothing remained on the ground but the bearskin covered in leaves. A sigh rose as the crowd let out their breath.

Jakan raised the bearskin to let the leaves fall and reveal the ground beneath, pristine and undisturbed. He hoisted the skin over his head and shouted, “Arrakesh has regained his own. Praise to Arrakesh!”

The villagers looked up and responded as one, “Praise to Arrakesh!”

With quiet ceremony, Jakan folded the bearskin and laid it across his arms, then offered it to Megda. Cocooned in a brown shawl, her body still shook with her sobs. She took the fur and held it to her face.

Without a word, Jakan turned to walk down the hill, his eyes stinging. This was the signal for the others that the Farewell was over. Without a sound they turned and followed.

The procession worked its way back down through the trees and the village to the open area near the Meeting Hall. Here, fires had been lit the night before and wild boar had been set to roast. The appetising smell pervaded the air.

At the bottom of the hill, Jakan stopped and watched as people began to dry their tears. They looked forward, he knew, to the feasting and games to follow. There would be much talking and laughter about the exploits of Kattan. This was the way for all those who died. The tribe celebrated the life of their friend or family member, to acknowledge the part they had played in the life of the village. Today, however, Jakan wondered for a brief moment if anyone would notice if he slipped away.

As he wandered towards the fires, he saw the black hawk perched high on the apex of the roof on the Meeting Hall. It stared at him hypnotically with golden eye. Jakan tensed. Wherever that bird appeared, Beldror never seemed to be far away. Sure enough, he soon saw him, leaning nonchalantly against the wall and gazing with indifference at the proceedings. Jakan felt his gall rise. This man claimed to be there in Varyd’s footsteps, to study the ways of the People of Arrakesh. Yet on this momentous occasion in the life of the village, he showed no interest. On the contrary, his look came so close to disdain as to be insulting.

Jakan forced himself to stop for a moment, to quell his anger. Beldror didn’t move when he saw Jakan coming towards him, but a smile played on his lips. To Jakan, the smile lacked sincerity. In fact, it was smug. He swallowed his anger like a bitter potion and kept his voice even.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t attend the Farewell, Beldror. I’m happy to say that we’re quite a healthy lot and, pray Arrakesh, you may not get the chance to experience another Farewell before you leave.”

 “I’m not an early riser. In Carlika, funerals are held at a much more hospitable time of day!”

Jakan fumed. Varyd, the visitor of his youth, had never compared what the People of Arrakesh did to his own, except in a positive way. For the first time in his life Jakan felt the non-violent nature that had been passed to him, and all the People of Arrakesh, being truly challenged. His fists clenched and he was struggling to find a cutting reply when Grifad strode towards them, a determined look on his florid face.

“Beldror, young man, you simply must come and join us at the breakfast feast!” He bellowed as if Beldror were deaf. “We can’t have our honoured guest being left out, can we?”

Beldror shrugged. “Why not? With all this food, I should be able to find something palatable.”

Apparently oblivious to the insult, Grifad waved his arms towards the fires, his smile as broad as his face. He cast Jakan a self-satisfied look. Then he strode off after Beldror, his portly frame battling to catch up. Jakan took deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He glanced up and once again caught the eye of the hawk. It glared at him. Then, with the same supercilious look as its master, it took off into the forest with a ponderous flap of its great black wings.

The villagers breakfasted on the meat and other food that they brought from their cottages in wooden bowls. Their faces brightened as they ate and began to share stories about Kattan. Soon the misery of the Farewell gave way to a festive atmosphere. Only Megda seemed unable to rise out of her grief. She nodded in sad acceptance of offered condolences, then sank back into her private thoughts, staring into the flames of the fire by which she sat. Jalena and Kelsha sat by her, occasionally offering her food, which she refused, or rubbing her back.

Taking a wooden bowl, Jakan filled it with an assortment of tidbits and moved to sit with Megda. Both Jalena and Kelsha rose at his arrival and moved away to join the others. Jakan sat cross-legged and put an arm about Megda. She sank against him, resting her grey head on his shoulder. They sat this way for some time before he spoke.

“He would want us to remember him with joy, Megda.”

“Then I’ll fail him for a while longer, for I can’t feel it.”

“Nor I.”

She sat up and turned to him, her grey eyes questioning.

 “I’m like a plant uprooted and replanted,” Jakan said. “I may grow strongly again given time, but for a while I’ll wilt and look sad. That’s only natural.”

Megda’s eyes brimmed again. “He loved you as the son he never had, you know.”

“I’m privileged to have had two fathers and loved them both. And you’ll always be the one I loved as mother.”

Megda buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. Jakan’s mother had died at his birth. Megda had cared for him while his father was working, cared for him when he was ill, allowed him to be a child who needed to cry over his father’s death when others expected him to be a man.

He offered her the bowl he had brought and with a slight smile, she took a piece of acorn bread. Jakan, too, nibbled bread without enthusiasm as he watched the children playing a game of ‘Chase the Boar’. A young, dark-haired boy laughed and wove in and out of the adults as all the other children chased him around and around the Meeting Hall. In his haste, he tripped and sprawled on the ground. Silence hung in the air for a moment before he let out a piercing cry. He sat up, clutching his wrist and wailing. The other children gathered about him, followed quickly by the adults.

Jakan jumped to his feet and moved toward the boy. The crowd parted as he approached. He squatted and put his hand on the boy’s shaking shoulder. “Shhhh, Bajan.”

Bajan’s tears coursed through the dirt on his face, leaving pale streaks, which smeared when he wiped them. Jakan could feel the pain of the boy’s wrist as an ache in his own.

“It will soon be better.”

He reached towards the pouch at his belt to retrieve the healing stone, but instinct made him glance up. Beldror watched Jakan’s actions with keen interest.
Now he takes notice of what goes on here. Why?
Jakan took his hand from the pouch and searched instead for the boy’s mother. She had come to kneel by her son. Jakan held the swollen wrist towards her, being careful not to jar it.

“I don’t believe it’s broken. If you bring me some soft leather I’ll bind it and it will soon heal.”

Bajan’s mother returned with the leather within minutes and, excitement over, the villagers wandered away.

Jakan bound the wrist, finishing it with a knot. “There now, Bajan,” he said, as he tied the leather off, “that will soon heal, for I’ve finished it with my secret knot.”