“What else is there to say? I made sure he was dead. Then I put out his fire and went back to my children. They had kept quiet—hidden in a bush, like a pair of bowhorn fawns. Aiya! How good they had been! I praised them and fed them.
“Later I went north to the village. I left the children with Angai. By this time she was the shamaness. She told me she would raise them the right way. I could not. I went east and ended up where you met me—in the village of Nahusai.”
Nia leaned back and closed her eyes. She must have lost weight in the last few days. Her face looked thinner than usual, and the bones were easy to make out, even under the fur. Her jaw was heavy. Her forehead was round and low. She had thick cheekbones, and there was no indentation where her nose met her forehead. It went straight up, wide and flat all the way. She opened her eyes and blinked. “Decide between us. Is Hua right? Am I a pervert?”
I glanced up, seeking inspiration. The smoke hole was dark. Something was up there, blocking the light.
What on earth? I stood.
The thing moved. Sunlight came in. I could see the sky. “I’ll be back,” I said to Nia. I went out and turned.
Like all the roofs in the village this one was covered with vegetation. The small round leaves shone in the sunlight, and there were orange flowers. Bugs fluttered over the flowers. They had yellow wings. Midway down the roof the shamaness stood. Her robe was kilted up, and I could see her legs. They were bony and hairy with big knees.
“You listened at the smoke hole. You heard what Nia said.”
“My eyes are bad, but my ears are the best in the village. Aiya! What a disgusting narration! I ought to make you leave today.” She went to the edge of the roof and sat down. “Help me.”
I reached up. She dropped into my arms. She was light and she stank. It was a mixture of aromas, I decided as I set her down. Fur, musk, and bad breath. The old lady needed a dentist. I took a step back.
“The Voice of the Waterfall said help you. So I must. That crazy man! Why didn’t he grow up the right way and go out to join his brothers? Not him, the lunatic! He had to hear voices and see things in his dreams. I go and talk with him. He dances around and jabbers. Naked, too. He’ll catch a bad cold some winter and die. Let me tell you, it’s hard to be a mother. Now, go away! The woman in there is weak. She needs to rest.”
I opened my mouth.
“I won’t tell her what I heard. Go! Get out!”
I turned and walked away. Behind me the shamaness was muttering. I heard the word “perversion” and the word “disgusting.” Then she said in a loud voice, “Why do these things happen to me?”
I kept going till I reached the house of Eshtanabai. She was sitting in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, looking sleepy and contented.
I stopped. She looked up. “How is your friend?”
“Better. Tell me, what is the shamaness like?”
“Old and strange. Many people say her mind isn’t what it used to be. But she still remembers the ceremonies. She talks about the past. Old women always do. And she worries about her children. Not the daughters. They are in the village. She knows how they are getting on. She worries about the sons. She had five, and they all lived long enough to go through the change. Four are up north, if they haven’t died by now. The fifth—the youngest—you know about. He came from her last mating, when she was already getting old. Maybe that’s why he became an oracle. Old women have strange children. That is well known. Why do you ask?”
I made the gesture that can mean anything or nothing, the gesture of uncertainty.
“That isn’t much of an answer.” Eshtanabai got up. “Come in. I have some bara.”
This was the native alcohol. Or—at least—the native intoxicant in a liquid form.
“We’ll get drunk. I have nothing else to do today.” She led the way into her house.
I followed. Why not? We sat down near the fire. It was a heap of coals. I saw a tiny red glow at the bottom of the heap. A wisp of smoke drifted up, twisting and coiling in the beam of light which shone through the smoke hole. Eshtanabai filled two bowls and gave one to me. I drank. The liquid was bitter, and it burned in my mouth. I coughed, then swallowed.
“Drink more,” she said. She drained her cup, then refilled it. “Listen.” She leaned forward. “I think you are worried about the shamaness. She is a good woman. Old and strange, but good. But not everything that comes out of her mouth is holy. Only an oracle is holy all the time, and it’s a terrible strain. Most oracles die young. Drink some more. It will do you good. It is hard to sit and wait for someone you love to get better.”
I drank the rest of the bara.
Eshtanabai poured out more. “The shamaness is often holy. But at times she is a foolish old woman, who talks about her sons. We try to be polite. It isn’t easy. Last year we sent a boy out, and she got drunk. She didn’t sing the proper songs, the songs that tell the boy, ‘Be brave! You are doing what is expected!’ She sang about the woman who mated with the wind. That song is not appropriate.”
“What is it about?”
“You don’t know? It’s a very old story. It took place long ago, when we lived like the Amber People. Our houses were tents. We followed the herd. There was a woman who went out at the time of mating. There was a terrible storm that year. The bowhorns stampeded, and the men went after them. As a result this woman did not find a man. Her lust ended. She returned to the village. After a while it became evident that she was pregnant. Late in the winter she had a child. It was a child of the wind. No one could see the baby, and she was hard to get hold of. When she was hungry, she would go to her mother to nurse. Then the mother learned—by touching her—that the baby was a girl and covered with soft fur. But most of the time the baby was restless. She ran in her mother’s tent. She ran through the village. One day she ran out onto the plain. She never returned. Her mother knew this would happen. She made a song for the child before she left. It goes like this:
“This is the song the old woman sang when we sent the boy out of the village. Everyone was angry, especially the mother of the boy. A woman has many rituals in her life. A man has one: the ceremony of parting. And the old woman had ruined it. She made it a sad occasion. But what can we do? A good shamaness is hard to find. This one is excellent. She can cure almost any kind of illness. And the spirits send rain for our gardens when she asks them to. Have more to drink.”
We drank. Eshtanabai told me about the old shamaness, the one before the one they had now. She had been greedy.
“Aiya! She had a house full of things. The older she got the more she wanted. She asked for more than the ceremonies were worth. We gave it. We had to. No one wants bad luck or the anger of the spirits. But the spirits got angry, anyway. The ceremonies didn’t work.”
“Why?”
Eshtanabai frowned. “Because we gave too much. Look. I fill your cup. I’m generous. I fill it to the brim. That is a proper giving. You have enough. It makes you happy. I know you will give me something in return. That makes me happy. But if I keep pouring and the bara goes over the brim, if it gets your hand wet and spills on your clothing or the floor, that isn’t a proper giving. That is an insult and a mess.
“A giving is a binding. But only a fool ties a strong rope to a piece of string. You must tie like to like, otherwise the knot will slip or break.”