The Godspeaker Trilogy (5 page)

“Welcome, Trader Abajai, Trader Yagji,” said the godspeaker. “It is many seasons since you were seen in Todorok.”

Abajai ordered his camel to kneel, climbed down, and snapped his fingers. Hekat climbed down after him and stood a little to one side, silent and wide-eyed. As Yagji’s camel folded its legs so the fat Trader might stand on the ground, Abajai said, “The god sends us where and when it desires, Toolu godspeaker. This far north good slaves grow thin on the ground, like grain without nourishment. But we are here this highsun, to trade for supplies and buy such flesh from you as promises us profit. If you have flesh to sell?”

“I am certain there will be some,” said the godspeaker. “Let us wait in the godhouse as word is sent to bring merchandise for your inspection. I will make sacrifice for your arrival.”

Abajai bowed. “The god sees you, godspeaker. And as we wait . . .” He took Hekat’s arm, tugging her forward. “You see this one?”

The godspeaker nodded, his curiosity almost hidden. “I see that one, Trader Abajai.”

“I wish it bathed and fed and dressed in cotton, with shoes upon its feet and charm-beads in its godbraided hair, for health and beauty and obedience. You will please me and the god to grant my desire. I will make an offering in return.”

The godspeaker’s hooded gaze lingered on Abajai’s scarlet scorpion, quiet in his cheek. Then he raised a sharp hand, so the snake-bones bangled round his wrist chattered. “Bisla.”

A short plump woman stepped forward from the watching crowd. Ivory amulets dangled from her ears and her nakedness was hidden beneath robes too fine for any female, surely. “Godspeaker.”

“Abajai wishes this one bathed and fed and dressed in cotton, with shoes upon its feet and charm-beads for health and beauty and obedience in its godbraided hair,” the godspeaker said, not looking at the woman. “You and your sisters may honor him so.”

“Yes, godspeaker.” The woman held out her hand. “Come, child.”

Hekat looked up at Abajai. “Go with her,” he said. “Obey her wishes but hold your tongue. There is nothing to fear, you will return to me before we leave.”

“Yes, Abajai,” she said, trusting him. His word was his word, he kept her safe.

The woman and two others took her to a white house two streets away from Abajai. Its lizard roof had scales of blue and yellow. Inside, the floor was made of wood—did so many trees grow anywhere, to be cut down and turned into houses?—and on top of the wood were large squares of colored wool, soft beneath her feet. The women hurried her to a room with no windows. Sunk into its floor was a deep round hole maybe six man-paces across, lined with smooth stones. Stone steps led down into it. The woman Bisla rang a bell. A moment later a large slave appeared at the door. He was bare-chested, sewn with beads across his breast. He wore loose green trousers and red cloth shoes with pointy toes.

“Mistress,” he said, his hairless head bowed.

“Hot water,” said the woman Bisla. “Fresh soap. Cloths. Brushes and combs. My bead box. My hand mirror. Tunic and pantaloons from Dily’s room, cotton, not linen or wool. And shoes.”

“Mistress,” the slave said again, and withdrew.

A wide wooden bench ran the length of one wall. The woman Bisla and her sisters pushed Hekat onto it. Then they stripped off the yellow robe Abajai had given her. Hekat would have shouted and snatched it back again, slapped the women for daring to touch Abajai’s gift. But Abajai had told her his word so she just pinched her lips and let them take it.

“Skinny! Skinny!” the woman Bisla exclaimed, pointing at her ribs. “Does Abajai not feed you, child?”

Abajai had told her not to talk. She shrugged.

“Is that yes or no?”

Another shrug.

“She’s afraid, poor thing,” said one of the other women. “I wonder who she is? Not Abajai’s get!” She arched her thin eyebrows at the others and giggled.

As slaves led by the hairless beaded man entered the room bearing leather buckets of steaming water, the woman Bisla frowned and shook her head. “Tcha! It is not needful to know these things.”

The hairless beaded slave put down the items the woman Bisla had ordered him to bring, then watched as one by one the other slaves emptied their buckets into the stone-lined hole. They left and returned many times until the hole was filled almost to the top. They placed four full wooden buckets to one side, bowed, and withdrew. The woman Bisla spread a large cloth beside the hole and on it placed a brush, a comb, a pile of smaller cloths and a pale pink jar. She took off its lid. Inside was something soft and slippery, smelling like flowers.

Amazed, Hekat stared at the hole full of water. Stared even more amazed as the woman Bisla stripped off her clothes and trod down the stone steps into it. The water reached up to her waist. Bisla held out her hand. “Come, child. Into the bath.”

She shook her head. It was a stoning sin to put your body into water. Seasons and seasons ago, when she’d been a tiny she-brat, a boy in the village had lost his wits and put himself into the largest of the village’s four wells. The godspeaker stoned him slowly, one small rock at a time, and he left the boy’s face till last. The god’s wrath was terrible, it opened so many screaming mouths in that boy’s flesh, wept so many blood tears over that boy’s sin, it only took one stone in the eye to finish him. That dead boy was hung from the village godpost until he turned to leather. Then every dwelling in the village had to keep him under their roof for a godmoon. Once every dwelling had housed him that boy was given back to his family, and his family was driven onto The Anvil.

Only a fool put his body into water.

“Come, child!” Bisla said again, sounding impatient. “You are dirty and wretched and the godspeaker will punish us if you are not made presentable for Abajai.”

Hekat shook her head. Bisla snapped her fingers at the other women, they lifted her by the arms and dropped her shrieking and kicking into the water. It closed over her head as though the god was swallowing her alive, rushed up her nose and down her throat. A haze as scarlet as Abajai’s tattooed scorpion rose behind her screwed-shut eyes. She thrashed to the surface, opened her mouth to scream and the water poured in . . .

“Aieee, you stupid child!” the woman Bisla shouted, smacking. “Spit it up! Spit it up !”

Hekat spat and retched and could breathe again. Making her legs strong she stood up straight. The water stopped at her shoulders. Her unbraided hair was a wet mat plastered to her skin, she coughed and spluttered and her chest was on fire, but she wasn’t dead. Bisla dragged the sopping hair away from her eyes and dug long fingernails into her cheeks.

“This is Abajai’s word! You must do as Abajai commands!”

Yes. Yes. The woman Bisla was right. Above all things she must obey Abajai.

“It is a bath, child,” the woman said crossly. “Surely you’ve had a bath before?”

“I don’t think she has, Bisla,” said the shorter of her sisters. “The poor thing’s terrified.”

“No wonder she’s so filthy if she’s never had a bath,” said the other one. “Be gentle, Bisla. If you frighten her she might complain to Abajai or Toolu godspeaker.”

The woman Bisla loosened her fingers, and managed a smile. “Do not be afraid, child. The water will not hurt you, and neither will we. You want to be clean, don’t you?”

Still breathing hard, Hekat shrugged. The water sloshed against her skin, warm and comforting. All the tight places in her body, the muscles in her legs, her back, that had knotted like goathide rope with the camel-riding, they were starting to unknot. She’d wanted to walk some days, to run beside Abajai on the ground to ease her aching body, but he wouldn’t let her. She hadn’t complained, had never once whimpered, but with every newsun her body had hurt just a little bit more.

This hot water was . . . was . . .

Good? No. Good was a small word. She didn’t have a big enough word for what this was.

She smiled.

“There!” said the woman Bisla, and pinched the end of her nose, but not meanly. “Soon you will feel wonderful, I promise!”

With her sisters’ help, Bisla poured the pink flower-smelling stuff onto cloths and scrubbed Hekat all over, even between her toes. More pink stuff was poured into her hair, so Bisla could scrub that too. The pink stuff turned frothy like sadsa, but not white. Grubby brown, it floated on the water and stung her eyes. But that was only a small pain and it was what Abajai wanted, so Hekat didn’t protest or fight. She gasped when the woman Bisla poured a whole bucket of water over her head, was astonished when her hair was scrubbed again, then again, until the froth at last was sadsa white.

By then the hot water was cool and she was feeling so soft, so floppy, it was all she could do to keep her legs strong and straight. If she wasn’t careful she’d slide right back under the water again. Her wet hair was so heavy her head wanted to tip backwards. If she let that happen it might snap off altogether. That was how heavy her hair felt.

“There, child. You are properly clean,” said the woman Bisla. “Does it please you?”

Hekat nodded. Properly clean was something else bigger than good. What had the woman said? Wonderful .

“Now we must somehow untangle that rat’s nest you call hair. Aieee! Let’s hope Abajai and Yagji are in a haggling mood today or you’ll never be godbraided before they finish their business!”

The woman Bisla helped her climb up the stone steps on her wobbly legs. Then the other two women wrapped her in a large thick cloth and pressed the water from her heavy hair with more cloths as the woman Bisla dried and dressed herself. After that, all three women sat her on the floor. They seated themselves around her and began to tease at her damp hair. It hurt. Their busy fingers tugged and twisted, they made sharp sounds of annoyance and asked the god over and over to help them.

“Has it ever been brushed?” grumbled the shortest sister. “I don’t think it has.”

She was wrong. The woman had brushed her hair sometimes, when the man wasn’t looking. Not often, though, and not for long.

“How many godbraids does Abajai want?” said the other sister, tchut-tchutting as her comb caught in another knot. Hekat swallowed a cry of pain. She-brats who made noises like that were always sorry. “Even with the god’s help we won’t manage more than fifteen before the haggling’s done. Will that be enough?”

“If you waggle your fingers as fast as your tongue there’ll be plenty of godbraids when we give her back!” snapped the woman Bisla.

Hekat yawned and closed her eyes. The hot water had left her sleepy, all her nagging pains lulled to silence. The knots were gone from her hair now, the women’s fingers whispered through it. Their light touches on her scalp prickled over her warm clean sweet-smelling skin. The woman Bisla and her sisters chattered as they worked, talking of people and secrets, village business. She let herself drift away from it, wondering about Abajai and what he was doing.

“There!” the woman Bisla said at last, jerking her back to the room. “You are godbraided. See?” She waggled her fingers, and the shorter sister gave her a polished silver disc attached to a carved wooden handle. Hekat had never seen anything like it. “Look!” said the woman Bisla. “The god has blessed you, child.”

Hekat looked and saw a face. Even though it was against Abajai’s word, she cried out. “Aieee! Demon! Demon !”

The woman Bisla grabbed her wrist. “Demon? Silly child! That is no demon, that is you .” She held up the silver disc. “This is a mirror. Have you never seen a mirror?”

Mirror? Heart pounding, all the warmth and softness in her body turned cold and hard with fear, Hekat shook her head.

“She is a savage, Bisla,” the other sister said.

“Where are you from, child?” said the woman Bisla, still holding her wrist. “Where did Abajai find you?”

She’d spoken too many words, against Abajai’s want. She shook her head again, lips pinched shut. The woman Bisla sighed, and held up the mirror again.

“Look,” she said, her voice coaxing now, like the man’s sons to the shy goats. “It will not harm you. How can it? The face in the mirror is yours.”

She had never seen her face before, never dreamed there was a way anyone could see their own face or imagined why they would want to. She looked.

Two blue eyes, big and frightened. Thick black lashes, long enough to brush her skin. High cheekbones. Hollow cheeks. A wide mouth with plump pink lips. A softly pointed chin. All these face-parts the woman had shown her, touching her own and saying the words over and over until she remembered. She could see the woman’s face in the mirror and the man’s too, muddled together to make Hekat.

Framing Hekat’s face were her godbraids. Fascinated, she watched her fingers touch the bright red and green beads the women had woven into her thick black hair. Her godbraids weren’t like Abajai’s, they were fatter and looser and they didn’t hold as many charms. When they reached Et-Raklion she would ask him to give her godbraids like his. He would do that for her, she was precious.

The woman Bisla’s finger stroked her cheek. “You are very beautiful, child. Do you understand?”

No, but the woman was smiling. Did that make beautiful a good thing? She wanted to know. Abajai had said no speaking, but these words were in service of him, so . . . “Beautiful please Abajai?”

“Yes,” said the woman Bisla. “Of course. Beautiful pleases every man.”

She let herself smile. Pleasing Abajai was all that mattered. In the mirror she saw her teeth, pure white in her clean and beautiful face.

“Now you must dress, child,” said the woman Bisla. “Abajai will be waiting.”

The tunic and pantaloons they put on her weren’t soft and silken slippery like Abajai’s yellow robe but they felt good all the same. They were colored dark green, with gold and crimson threads sewn around the neck and the wrist and the ankles. They sat upon her scented skin lightly, and rustled when she moved.

“Look at her feet,” said the older sister, frowning. “The soles are like leather! Does she even need shoes?”

“Shoes are Abajai’s word,” said the woman Bisla. “In shoes her soles will soften over time. She has pretty, slender feet. They must be protected.”