Time of the Eagle (7 page)

During the meal I said to him, “I was told about your two sons taken as slaves, Ramakoda. I'm sorry.”

“There were many taken,” he said. “Every family in the tribe has suffered loss. I swear by Shimit, if I was chieftain here, we'd be going to Navora now to get them back.”

“Would your father ever do that?”

“No. He used to be a great warrior, but he's old now, and wants only peace. He pays a high price for this, what he calls peace.”

I said nothing, sensing a deep anger in him.

After a while he asked, “Later today, would you sew up my
cuts? Our priestess wanted to treat them, but I said I would have you do it, and no other. She warned me of dire consequences, but I shall risk them.”

“Of course I'll sew up your cuts,” I said. “Tell me, where is your priestess?”

“She's the one beside my father,” he said.

Looking across the mat, I saw an old woman rocking slowly back and forth, the air about her filled with the sharp shadows of pain. Both her feet were bound with strips of cloth, deeply stained.

“Her name is Gunateeta,” Ramakoda said. “She doesn't do much healing anymore. Last winter she was lost in the snow for several days, and the cold killed her feet. Now she can barely walk. My father wants her to teach one of the women her healing skills, but she is bitter and short-tempered, and no one wants to work with her. Soon we will have no healer.”

I looked away from the holy woman to a youth with striking patterns on his coat. He was the only one with painted clothes, and though he had an Igaal tattoo on his brow, he seemed different from the other youths. He was good-looking, with hair curling in heavy ringlets cut shoulder length, and his soul-colors were mauve and blue, the finest hues.

“My youngest brother, Ishtok,” said Ramakoda, seeing where I looked. “He is our pledge-son.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“The Hena are a divided people. Tribe fights tribe, and some of them fight us, while others are friendly. Many summers ago we were attacked by a Hena tribe and had almost lost the battle
when another Hena tribe—enemy to the one that attacked us—came to our rescue. Afterward, when we had won the battle, the Hena chieftain who had helped us and our chieftain swore always to be at peace with each other. As a pledge of friendship, the Hena chieftain sent one of his sons to live with us for five years, and Mudiwar sent Ishtok to live with the Hena tribe. Ishtok came home to us three summers ago.”

“Who is the man he talks with?”

“That is my other brother, Chro. Chro fought well in the battle against the Navoran soldiers, so they tell me. My other two brothers were taken for slaves. The woman next to them is my sister, Chimaki. Her husband died two summers ago, of fever. They had no children. She is second mother to my youngest child.”

“I'm not understanding,” I said. “What is second mother?”

He explained, “In Igaal clans, every close kinswoman to a child is considered its mother. Its birth mother is called its first mother. If—if my youngest child lives, Chimaki will be her second mother.”

He went very still, and grief went through him again, hard like a sword. It is strange how I felt his feelings, the same way I felt my mother's or those of other people I loved. I think we were bound together by fate long before we met, Ramakoda and I. He said, of his youngest child, “Kimiwe is five summers old. During the battle she was knocked into a fire. She's dying of the burns, but death comes slow.”

“Where is Kimiwe now?” I asked.

“In the healing tent, with the others wounded in the battle.
The healing tent is Gunateeta's domain, and only she may go in there, for it is full of the spirits she calls upon to help. Gunateeta tells me that Kimiwe is beyond knowing, though she still breathes.”

“Many times I've helped my mother heal burns,” I said. “My father taught my mother to heal burns the Navoran way.”

He looked at me, astonished. “Sewing up cuts I can understand, and giving plants to fight poisons,” he said. “But burns . . . Well, they're another matter. You can heal burns, Avala?”

“I'm knowing what to do with burns,” I said, “though it's not the healing that is hard but keeping out poisons afterward.”

“If you stopped Kimiwe's pain, and tried to do the healing, she would have a chance at life.”

“And if I try to heal her and she dies?” I said. “What will you do to me?”

“There would be no blame in you. She is dying anyway, so you cannot make her worse. If you only take away her pain, I would be thankful. I know your healing well, Avala. I'm willing for you to do this thing, if you are willing.”

I hesitated, not because of the child, but because of what these people might do to me if I failed, no matter what Ramakoda said.

“I already owe you my own life, Shinali woman,” he said. “And you have agreed to do more healing on me. If I ask too much, I am sorry. My daughter is all I have left of my family. She is heart of my heart.”

“I'll do my best for her,” I said at last, “if your father, and all your people, will swear to let me go in peace, no matter the
outcome. I'll not be trapped in a thing that might kill me.”

“You were trapped in such a thing the moment you first knelt by me, to help me,” he said.

And then I remembered the words of our priest, Zalidas, and the hope I had that first hour with Ramakoda, when the lands about me burned with light and the ancient prophecy hung in the skies as clear as an eagle's wings. I thought that perhaps, in the All-father's knowing, my true work in the Igaal lands lay yet before me, and my healing of Ramakoda was only the beginning.

“I have never been trapped with you, Ramakoda,” I said. “But I still would like your father's blessing on anything I do here, among your people.”

“Then I'll ask for it,” he said, “when the feast is over.”

I noticed that some people had not joined in the feast—five people who stood over the mats with the food, waving large fans made of branches. They kept the flies off the food, but I wondered that they themselves never stopped to eat. No one spoke to them, and they were ignored. I asked Ramakoda who they were.

“Slaves,” he said, putting down his food bowl and licking his fingers clean. “They eat when we've finished.”

“Where did they come from?”

“The Hena. After battles, we keep prisoners for slaves. And we trade for slaves, when we meet with other Igaal tribes.”

“Why is there hatred between you and some of the Hena?”

“It's the old conflict—they try to steal our lands, so we fight.”

People were beginning to leave, now that the meal was over, and Ramakoda stood up, saying, “I'll go and talk with my
father, and do battle with Gunateeta over my daughter. Wish me luck, Shinali woman.”

He limped around to the place where his father was. The holy woman was still there, with a few other members of the chieftain's family. Again, Ramakoda knelt before his father. I could not hear what he said, but it made the people turn around and stare at me. The holy woman, standing just behind the old man, pointed at me and said some angry words, but I could not make them out. People who were leaving began to turn back, to find out what was happening. The chieftain raised his hand and said, very loudly so all could hear: “Who will heal your child, Ramakoda? Choose carefully.”

Ramakoda replied, “I choose the Shinali woman, Avala, as healer for my child. And as healer for myself, as my cuts need to be sewn up.”

The chieftain gave a command, and a girl brought him a bowl of water. In utter quiet he washed his hands then flicked his fingers hard, shaking off the drops. The bowl was taken away, and people stood around in silence, waiting. They all were watching the holy woman. She spat onto the ground and hobbled away.

Ramakoda bowed again to his father, then came back to me. “The healing of my youngest child, it's yours,” he said.

“Your holy woman is not pleased about it,” I remarked. “Nor your father, I'm thinking.”

“He does not like crossing Gunateeta. He needs her to pass on her skills, else we shall be without healer and priestess when she dies. So he tries always to keep the peace with her, and she
knows it, and holds a little power over him. It is the only power she has, these days.”

“Why does he not command her to teach what she knows?”

“He has, but she said the spirits were angered and would depart unless she chose freely the one to follow in her shoes. And who can argue against spirits?”

“You argued against them,” I said, “in asking for my healing for your child.”

“I love Kimiwe,” he said. “Love is stronger than fear.” Suddenly he grinned, and added, “Besides, Shinali woman, I'm counting on your
munakshi
to protect us.”

When I was with the Shinali I had the opportunity to help their chieftain, an old man called Oboth, who was in a great deal of pain. I did not heal his illness, for that is incurable; but I did ease his suffering for a time. I felt then that, of all the pains I had ever eased, the soothing of Oboth's was the most wonderful. In the eyes of my nation, Oboth and his people were my enemies, and yet with them, with the Shinali, I felt only a great peace, even a sense of belonging; and the healing of Oboth was like a greater healing, a healing of age-old enmity and wrongs, a breaking down of walls that were more than pain, more than one man's disease. It was a healing of hearts, his and mine.

—Excerpt from a letter from Gabriel to his mother, kept and later gifted to Avala

I
was nervous, afraid, and worried about the priestess; yet when I knelt beside the child Kimiwe, there was nothing in my mind save pity. She had been terribly neglected. My mother had taught me that cleanliness is vital in healing; it was a thing my father had told her. Yet the child Kimiwe had not been washed or treated in any way, so far as I could tell, and I marveled that her burns had not become infected. Awful wounds they were. Her chest was burned, part of her hair, and one side of her face, though her eyes were spared.

I had her placed on a clean mat near the entrance in the chieftain's tent, in good light, for the skies had clouded over and it was dim inside. Then I asked for a fire to be lit and water to be boiled, and for the sharpest, finest blades to be brought to me. I
asked for the best tendons for thread, fine bone needles, clean cloths, and herbs for making poultices. My request for the plants caused some alarm, for herbs were the priestess's specialty, and she wanted nothing to do with me. Somehow Ramakoda got from her what I wanted, though I sniffed and tasted all the leaves he brought, to make sure my healing would not be deliberately hindered.

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.