Shadow Valley (30 page)

When he had finished, Tall One knelt to draw in the dust. T’Cori watched carefully, and then translated. “He says that this dance was taught him by his granduncle, who learned it from his. He says that our elephants are naked, and theirs were much larger and covered with hair.”

What a thought! The Ibandi had a great good laugh at that. The Vokka were wonderful liars, indeed!

As the days passed, Frog struggled to think more deeply. What if Still-shadow was right? Could vital knowledge have been lost when the hunt chiefs died on Great Sky? Would it even be possible to find those knowings once again?

Late on one lazy day, when the Vokka were sharing gathered fruit with their camp, Frog tried to communicate his concern to them. “You have taught us many things, and we would share with you in return. We have mixed the men’s and women’s magic, and found it good. You have been good friends, and we wish to share what we have found with you.”

His expression uninterested, Tall One danced his answer, and T’Cori struggled in translation. “No. We have no need to learn these things.”

Stillshadow was seated on her new sitting stone. He had thought her to be off in her own world, but she responded. “I have seen you practice with spears for the hunt.”

When T’Cori translated, Tall One snorted in disbelief, and danced. “Seen? You are a blind woman. What can you see?”

“Only my face-eyes have dimmed,” Stillshadow replied. “I see more now than I ever did. You are very brave, and all of you have been hurt many times.”

The hunter shrugged his scarred, sun-burnt shoulders. “It is our place in the world.”

Stillshadow continued. “We can teach you new things. Ways to catch flesh without so many wounds. Ways to turn plants into allies, poisons to bring the giraffe to their knees, offering their throats to your knife. We have medicines to heal your bones.”

The Vokka hunter huffed. “We have our own medicines.”

“You say your grandfather’s fathers came here, from many horizons to the north,” T’Cori said. “But all Ibandi fathers, since the beginning, have lived
in this land. What we have learned, we remember. Many of your ways work well here, or you would not live. But others, not so well I think.”

Tall One’s expression remained flat and unreadable. “What do you want?”

T’Cori did not answer him directly. “I share my healing arts, everything I know.”

The hunter watched her eyes, knowing that there were many things unsaid. Still, he nodded. He danced. And from time to time he paused to draw in the dust, as the Vokka women struggled to interpret Ibandi words.

T’Cori translated for Frog. “He says there may be good in this. He fights for his women and children, because it is what he must do. He says they are our friends. But he and his people need nothing from us. If he takes from us, he must give in return. He says that this is the only reason anyone ever gives anything. They give so that later, they can take.”

T’Cori looked to Stillshadow. “Mother? You have heard. What do you say?”

Stillshadow blinked, as if her eyes were irritated by the warm dry wind ruffling the grass. “The Vokka are our friends, as much as they can be. But if trouble comes, we must help ourselves.”

“How can we,” T’Cori asked, “when so much was lost to us?”

The old blind woman was silent for so long that Frog began to study her chest, just to be certain she had not finally surrendered the
jowk.
Then she spoke. “We must go back to the beginning. What the hunt chiefs knew is buried with them. But Cloud Stalker and I were together most of our days. Whatever I taught you was touched by him, as what he taught the chiefs was touched by me. Share what we do know. T’Cori, teach the dances to your man. Somewhere at the core of them is what they need. It is in the dance. I know it. I feel it. At the core of all is nothing. And the nothing becomes something because of dance. That,” she said, “is all there is.”

When hunting with the Vokka, Frog noted their amazement that the Ibandi threw their spears. The Vokka, in contrast, were expert stalkers, capable of sneaking within stabbing range of a buffalo. Despite the thickness of their bodies, they moved almost as silently as shadows.

And the wolves! The Vokka’s four-legged companions did not hunt the way humans did: they ran their prey down, nipping at the ankles and legs of zebra or impala until the terrified and exhausted creature stumbled and fell. Then, the wolves were upon it in a killing frenzy. When they killed, they actually shared with the men. When a man speared or wounded an animal, the wolves dragged it down and ripped out its throat. When their squat, pale, human companions came close, the wolves went into an odd kind of semitrance, growling deep in their throats but not snapping as the Vokka carved the prey into pieces.

However, if an Ibandi came near, those deep-throated growls grew more menacing. Their eyes grew brighter. Thus far, no Ibandi had come within biting distance of a Vokka wolf. No one wished to be the first to test those teeth.

Ibandi and Vokka hunted for food and for sport, and sometimes their new friends came to the Ibandi camp just to amuse themselves with Quiet Water or T’Cori’s efforts at translation. It was on one of the hunting expeditions that Frog discovered a familiar bush: dark green stems, little red flowers, as broad as it was tall.

“Look at the poison-grub bush,” Frog said.

“Poi-sen,”
said Tall One.

“The juice goes on the spear,” Frog said. “The spear kills with a scratch.”

Quiet Water translated haltingly. The Vokka men struck their spears angrily on the ground.

“What are they saying?” Frog asked, curiosity fully stirred.

“They say that this is cowardly. That with such things, any woman could kill an elephant.”

Frog’s face went hot. “Cowardly? Because I wish to feed my family, I have no heart?” He hawked, thinking to spit into the dust at their feet, and then changed his mind and walked away. “Tell them what I said,” he called over his shoulder.

When he returned to the camp, he told Stillshadow what had happened. He had to repeat it three times before she seemed aware that he was standing in front of her. She raised her wrinkled hand. “No, Frog! Listen to me. They have their own ways. You say they have many scars. How do they justify those wounds, their broken bones, except by believing their gods demand that they pay such a price? What we offer them will take time.”

“How do you see so much with only five eyes?”

The old woman smiled. “How do you see so little with seven?”

From that point forward, a women’s circle, combining the ways of Ibandi and Vokka, met almost every night

When Stillshadow roused herself from trance and sang with them or for them, her voice and fragile dance held them rapt. “We are the ones who bring the men into this world.”

The Vokka woman called Old Young spoke in word and sign and symbol. “Eight have I brought through my body. The last almost killed me.” She slapped her knee. “But I am here! And he is tall and strong.”

Stillshadow nodded. “We lose our teeth bringing them into the world.”

T’Cori and Sing Sun scrambled to translate back and forth.

“A tooth for every child!” Old Young said.

“Men see the things,” T’Cori said, dancing and gesturing as she did. Sing Sun drew glyphs in the dirt to clarify. At times, T’Cori had to pause, find new ways to say the things she needed to say. It made for painfully slow communication, but their speed increased a little every day.

She continued. “But men miss the web
between
things. It is our place to see these, as we see the past and the days to come.”

“We are women,” Old Young said. “We hold the world together.”

Ember sighed. “It is the way of women to be lonely. I miss my Fire Ant.”

“You have knowledge, as we have,” Stillshadow said. “I say that the men can wrestle and run and test one another, but we, as women, know how to share.”

Old Young was adamant. “Men are always boys. As women we must lead them.” Her voice was strong if rough. Her dance was halting, but its very torpor contained a measure of clarity.

Stillshadow lifted her hand. “Let this smoke seal our friendship.”

She reached into the leather pouch at her side and extracted a handful of herbs, which she threw onto the fire. The women breathed deeply, growing dizzy and light-headed as the cloud enveloped them.

“It is good.” Old Young said. “This is how it was when the world was young.

“‘Once, all the children of earth were one people, but the men fought among themselves. “I am the greatest hunter” one would say. And another would say, “Yes! But I am the greatest runner!” And on and on, until the gods wearied of their boasting and divided the people and separated them.’”

Stillshadow agreed.

“‘Women do not do this. All are proud of their own children, but they say, “See how beautiful your girl is!” “See how fast your boy runs!”’

“‘We take pride in these things that men cannot understand,’” the Vokka woman said.

Neither the women nor the men saw the shadow watching in the darkness.

Moving stealthily at first, it crawled back up over the valley ridge. As it blended into the shadows on the far side of the ridge it stood and ran, until it joined ten others.

“What did you see?” Moon Runner asked.

“They are there,” Fire Ant replied.

“Did you see the dancers?”

“Yes,” Ant said, “young and old.”

“Why do we wait?” Moon Runner asked.

“Because there was something else. Like Mk*tk. But not Mk*tk.”

“What are you saying?”

Ant shook his head. “There were strangers, not like people I have ever seen. Wide. Pale, with straight hair.”

“So … what do we do?”

“Whatever it is, we do it tomorrow,” he said, and rolled over onto his back, folding his fingers beneath his head. “My head hurts,” he said. “Tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow …”

“Tomorrow?” Moon Runner asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “perhaps we kill.”

The day began like any other, with a new sun sung to life and Frog’s countless thrusts against a now pockmarked baobab tree trunk.

By the time he was finished, the morning meal was prepared, and Frog sat with his family and enjoyed his first food of the day No more mush balls and jerky! This was fresh dates and juicy roasted boar. It was clean water from sparkling springs. It was the promise of life to come.

A deep sense of contentment welled up within him, like a morning glory embracing the sun. This, then, was what he had lacked for all these moons.

Even to himself he had dared not confess such a wonderful emotion, for fear that it might be taken from him, and the pain of loss would be greater than never feeling joy at all.

Then his eyes focused on the valley wall behind them, and he could not breathe. Ten-and-one men were approaching. Not Mk*tk, thank the mountain: Ten-and-one new
Ibandi
hunters. New spears for the hunt!

Then he saw the last face among them. Burned and scarred on the right side of his face, but still known at once.

“Fire Ant,” Frog whispered.

The thunder of his heart drowned out all sound. Rooted in place, unable to run, Frog watched his brother’s lips move, unable to hear a single word.

“My brother,” Ant mouthed silently, “have you no food for a ghost?”

Frog searched for words and found none. He felt as if his head were filled with the hard, cold water atop Great Sky.

Fire Ant stepped toward him, his handsome face scarred and burned, the right eye torn from its socket as if he were Uncle Snake’s younger twin.

Frog could not believe his eyes. Certainly, this could not be true. Not be
real.
Only when he felt Ant’s chest against his own did he really think he was not dreaming.

“It is a gift from Great Mother!” the women called, and fell to their knees, wailing and pulling their hair.

“Father Mountain sends a sign!” the men cried, and thumped their spears against the ground. Whooping and calling and dancing and crying, they brought meat and water and fruit for the walking miracle men.

Frog’s ears buzzed, without producing voices. His people gathered around, watching Frog’s ghost brother eat. Every bite, every chew, every step or word was proclaimed a miracle, the greatest wonder that they had ever seen. For had not Frog told them all, time and again, that his brother had died atop Great Sky?