Tribes (8 page)

Put that in your philosophical pipe and smoke it,
I thought.

"The speed of light has not been measured properly." Nicole spoke carefully, as though to a child. "Everyone knows that."

I slumped.

Michael drained his ginger ale. "You should meet our study leader. He'd like to talk to you. Our Bible study is fun, you know. Not like other churches."

Agitation saturated my nerves. A simple command to get out.
Out.
Elissa was still halfway across the room, surrounded by a chain of revelers doing the locomotion.

"You know, you're okay, Percy," Nicole said, briefly touching my wrist. "You're really okay."

I furrowed my brow. Okay? I was okay? My tear ducts welled up.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

I shook my head. Elissa joined us at last, nodded at Michael and Nicole. They smiled back.

"I...I left my stuff in your car," I said to Elissa.

"What stuff?"

"Those...uh...field notes I took today. I must retrieve them. Now."

"Yes," she said, recognizing the crisis. "Right. You should."

I walked past Michael and Nicole, pulling Elissa along behind me. We wriggled through the sweaty, Yuk-a-flux-soaked congestion. Outside, I sucked in fresh air. Two teens lay gazing skyward. A tribe of skateboarders, heads shaved, some wearing toques, rolled again and again over a jump on the sidewalk, like mice endlessly repeating an experiment.

"What was that about?" Elissa asked.

"They—Michael and Nicole—they have all the answers. They're just so...happy."

"Yeah, freaky, eh? Sorry I didn't rescue you sooner. But you should have returned my call."

"Oh. I didn't get it." I breathed deeper. "Really, I didn't."

"You're lucky I came. I stopped by your house and your mom had no idea where you were. Why didn't you call me?"

"I—I just couldn't..."

Her look softened. "Are you upset that I saw your scars?"

"No, I'm not. I'm not."

"Don't...don't get worked up." She grabbed my hand, squeezed it gently between both of hers as if she'd caught a butterfly. "You take everything so seriously."

I had to take things seriously. How else would I get my work done? "Elissa, I..."My thoughts were too random to express. "I'm sorry. I—I hurt. You. Your feelings, I mean. I didn't intend. To."

"Percy, it's...I think I understand. Well, not everything: Who in Hades were the Beothuks?" She grinned.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. "A tribe. In Newfoundland. They painted themselves with red ochre. They died out."

"I see," she said. "Now I do know everything." She squeezed my hands again. "This'll all blow over soon. We'll spend the summer catching rays and drinking daiquiris. We'll survive Grad Week. Where there's a will there's a way."

It was one of Will's favorite sayings. A joke. I pulled back my hand. "I could have stopped him," I said. "Should have."

"Will, you mean?"

"He told me. About Marcia. He asked whether I thought he stood a chance with her. I—I was too forthright: I said it was unlikely. She wasn't from our tribe."

"You couldn't have done anything, Percy. Sometimes things just happen."

"Things never just happen," I said. "There's always a reason. I wish I'd lied."

"That wouldn't have changed a thing. It was more than just Marcia. He was—he just kept so much to himself. Who knows what he was thinking half the time?"

"Did he tell you about his crush on her?" I asked.

"Yes. I almost fell over backward to hear him talk about his own feelings. And not joke about them."

"What did you say when he told you?"

"I—I don't really remember. Something like it was good to fall in love. Something like that."

She'd been encouraging. Loving, not logical. "He was lucky to have you as a friend."

"He was lucky to have both of us," she said. "And we were lucky to know him."

I opened my mouth to say something else, but Elissa put a finger to my open lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "You're getting that dazed look. It always happens when you think too much." Her skin tasted salty. She pulled her finger away, put it to her lips. "Shhh. Just forget about everything for now."

I nodded. She grabbed my hand and led me onto the street. "Enough tribal interactions for tonight," she said. "One can only be tacky for so long."

We wandered along silently for several blocks. She didn't let go of my hand. I tried not to think about what this might mean, concentrated on enjoying the warmth of her skin. We walked onto Broadway, into the bright neon lights of the bars and restaurants. Cutting across the street, we took a dark lane instead.

"By the way," Elissa said finally, "I like your hat. It's very cool."

Pride swelled up, but then Dad's hat felt loose, as if a small wind might lift it from my head. Without thinking, I pulled my hand from hers and held the hat down. After several steps I realized my mistake.

Stupid. Stupid me.

Though we walked together for another twenty minutes, I never found the guts to reclaim her hand.

At midnight, Elissa and I hugged in front of my house. For a long time. Then I went inside, my legs all wobbly.

Mom was meditating in the living room, surrounded by candles and a haze of pine incense.
Ommmmmm
emanated from somewhere deep inside her throat. Her lips didn't move. She could
Ommm
for hours, contacting various internal organs, willing them to function in perfect harmony with the rest of her body and the universe.

I padded past her. Stopped. Changed my course and sat down.

She opened her eyes. Smiled. "You're home," she said. "Nice outfit."

I slipped off the hat. "I was at a party. A tacky dress-up party."

"So you went disguised as your father?"

"I was myself. I was pretending I was on safari."

"Was it fun?"

I shrugged. "It was...well...entertaining."

"Good."

A long silence followed. She continued to smile.

"Mom. Tell me again. What happens when we die?" I asked.

"We ascend to the next stage of existence. Shed our flesh. Become pure spiritual energy. We have so much more to do. To become."

"What if I don't believe that? What happens to me?"

"Your doubts are natural. All will unfold as it should."

I nodded. "That's good to know," I said.

I retired to my room. Everyone had an answer. But I had none. I sighed. My lot, apparently, was to be an analyzer.

I went to my desk and recorded the day's events. Finally—arm tired, mind emptied—I collapsed on my bed and dreamed of jungles, tsetse flies and Elissa's warm hand.

eleven

SON OF THE NDEBELE

I was born in Saskatoon City Hospital at 11:05 p.m., August 19. My mother endured nine hours of labor and refused all medication. The attendees were a female doctor, two nurses, and Mom's midwife, Priscilla. I increased the population of the room, the city and the world by one.

I was also born at the same time fifteen thousand kilometers away in the district of Mpumalanga, South Africa. That's where my father was living with the Ndzundza, an Ndebele tribe. He had been there for six months, had heard of my mother's ever-swelling belly via letters.

Kgope, an old man of the tribe, burst into my father's conical mud house (there was also some dung mixed in as cement) and announced, "Unto you has son been born." It was 7:25 a.m. local time.

Dad was stunned. How did Kgope know? There were no phones. My father hadn't even spoken of the expected child.

Kgope explained: "My wife awoke. Shouted out
'Krep.'
Then left our matrimonial bed and made this." He handed my father a Swazi tribal doll of cloth and beads. "It is gift. For you. It is called Krep. It is your son. Your son it is. He is Ndebele now. Protected by the ancestors."

He next presented Dad with a beer. Kgope was the best beer maker in the area. They drank and talked about the hopes my father had for me. When they were finished, Kgope stood, grabbed Dad's suitcase and began packing Dad's clothes.

"What are you doing?" Dad asked.

Kgope didn't stop. "
Ubaba makeze ekhaya,
" he said quietly.

It took Dad a moment to translate the words:
Father should come home
.

"Your son spoke to me. Through Krep. It is time for you to go."

And so he did. Dad came all the way home.

To see me.

His only son.

That was not the last of my connections with the Ndebele. Years later my father warned me about the cruelest physical stage all humans endure: puberty. He explained that manhood was a seed Mother Nature had planted inside me. When the time was right, it would grow out of my body. "It's nothing to be frightened of; we evolve. Never fear change."

I was ten. Holding a toy car in my hand, the metal cold against my palm.

Then he told me how the Ndebele take their pubescent males into the bush for two months, shave their heads, circumcise them and train them in the manly arts. This ritual is called the
wela
. When they return to the village, a celebration is held and they are admitted to the councils of men. As part of their training they learn a secret language in which words are spoken backward. This language may not be divulged to strangers, or even to their own women.

"It's a shame the West doesn't have any traditions like it," my father said. "Such an amazing sight, all those young men, their bald heads glistening in the sun. So proud." Dad promised to lead me through a Canadian version of the ritual upon his return. It would involve a trip to a northern lake, a fishing rod and sleeping bags. Luckily, I had already been circumcised.

"Even the most civilized mind needs rituals," Dad explained. "It soothes the primitive within."

He never got the chance to take me, but when puberty finally grew out of my body, I was unafraid. I knew I was an Ndebele youth taking that next inevitable step toward becoming a man.

About the same time, a doll arrived in the mail, from Kgope. Attached was a note scribbled in English: "Welcome to manhood, Krep."

Krep.

Perk.

A backward sign. A symbol.

I was a man now.

twelve

DREAM WORLD

At 7:50 a.m. our phone buzzed. Mom answered, talking in a hushed voice. A moment later, she padded into my room and presented a note. I read it groggily:
Session with Mr. Verplaz. 2:30 p.m.

Mom's face was calm, except for the slightest downturn of her lips.

"I'll be there," I promised.

"I want to know why you weren't there yesterday."

"I—I forgot." Her demeanor indicated she needed more from me. "Mom, everything's so hectic at school. It's Grad Week. It's crazy! I honestly forgot."

"I would prefer if you didn't forget today."

I nodded. She didn't move. "You're too much like your father."

A chill skittered down my spine.

"You're in a dream world," she continued. "Not the real world. You've got to learn to stay grounded and dream. Let your spirit soar but remain in your body. Your father wandered too much in his own thoughts." She let out her breath. "You really should talk to him." Then she left.

I didn't move. She thought I was too much like Dad. I was worried I wasn't enough like him. I closed my eyes, pictured his face. I couldn't remember it perfectly, but I'd try to send him a message. Mom's orders.
Hey, Dad,
I thought.
Hello out there.
I wondered how long the message would take to reach him.
Ubaba makeze ekhaya. Pronto.

Eventually, I got up. After a breakfast of oatmeal porridge soaked in soy milk, I marched toward my third-to-last day of school. The sun was in the east. Light that had traveled a hundred and fifty million kilometers in eight and a half minutes warmed my skin. A pleasant sensation.

Just as I caught sight of Groverly High, a wailing cacophony stopped me. The sound of thirty cats dying a slow death. Of the universe ripping apart.

Bagpipes. Somewhere nearby. The Scottish blood in my veins, from my mother's side, began to vibrate. My Celtic heart thudded with joy. I had no choice—I was genetically programmed to respond to that wailing. I followed the sound, heading toward the river.

The bagpiper was extremely good. He had to be part of a Highlander band. Or the army. I wondered if he'd be clad in full kilt, flame-red hair billowing in the breeze.

Dew dotted the grass. A few tails of mist curled around the edge of the river. A woman jogged past, weights attached to her wrists and ankles—her face set in a look of absolute determination. I strolled under the Victoria Bridge, turned. Froze.

There, above me on a knoll, was Delmar Brass. Clad in blue jeans and a black shirt, his long hair down, playing the pipes as if he'd just strolled off a Scottish ship. He was facing the river, blasting his song toward the high-rise buildings and hotels on the other side. The music stirred some ancient feeling in my body. Songs of my ancestors. A direct tonal connection to the past.

It tuned my biorhythms.

Watching Delmar, I was amazed at the revelation handed me. Two cultures exhibited in one person. Proof that we all came from the same tree.

There was also a lesson: Never make assumptions. Rely on observation, then make a conclusion.

I backed away and climbed up the hill. The bagpipes slowly faded, but I still heard them echo inside my mind's ear. Groverly swallowed me readily. I sleepwalked down the halls and with numb fingers opened my locker.
Click
.

I stepped back, books in hand. Someone tripped over my leg and fell.

Marcia Grady was on the floor, looking up at me, blond hair perfectly coiffed, lipstick expertly applied, a trace of blue shadow accentuating her eyes.

A face to fall in love with.

Mom was right. I was living in a dream world.

"Sorry," Marcia said as she gracefully got up off the floor. She was taller than me. "I didn't see you there."