Jehan Silverback scratched his forehead. "It's a difficult situation and not one we expected. No one lives in this part of the ocean except us and our neighbors.
When ships come here, it's usually to fish or hunt. The crews are male. What family would risk its women on work that is hard and dangerous and unpleasant, and which does not require any of the usual female skills? One does not negotiate with a storm or a fish."
There were, of course, many families whose women fished. But Ahl was not going to argue with this pirate, who seemed to have strong opinions about women's work. Nor did she wish to bring up the worst danger of this region, the one that
would almost certainly keep women away: murderous pirates.
"You have never encountered a women's ship?" asked Perig.
"To the west of here we have," the guard said. "Not often, since we rarely go far into the narrow ocean. When we realize that a ship is crewed by women, we let it go with an exchange of greetings. We are not monsters! My cousin is right. You talk too much."
Perig said, "Let me go and help the cook. Then you'll be free of my foolish questions."
Jehan Silverback gave permission. The rest of them stayed where they were. By this time the sun was down and the sky darkening. Lamps began to glimmer on the two ships. This was a frightening situation, though not as frightening to Ahl as it would be to a modern woman. Having met the humans, we know that it is possible for a species to flourish in spite of behavior that our ncestors would find unthinkable; and we wonder if our own behavior is fixed. Could our men turn into monsters like human men? Could they turn on women and children? Is it possible that violence has no natural limits?
None of these questions occurred to Ahl, sitting on the darkening beach in another age. Instead she worried about the baby on the Taig ship. Surely it would wake soon, be hungry and cry. She worried about the possibility that her shipmates and the two actors would die, if not tonight, then tomorrow; and she
worried about the rest of this unlucky trip. Would they ever get to Helwar?
Would she ever see Ki again? But she did not fear harm to herself or Leweli. Was she fight to be fearless? At this distance in time we cannot say.
As dark closed around them, the cooking fire burned more brightly. Working in a red glare, the Taig cook roasted birds, while Perig prepared his tsin ears.
Dismembered, the birds went into an iron pot with water, the ears and herbs.
"This is something" said Jehan Silverback. "A proper feast and then a play. We never have events like this on our island."
Soon there was food, halin, and fresh clean water, drawn from one of the island's springs. None drank water, except the prisoners.
"Eat moderately," Perig whispered as he settled next to Ahl.
"Why?" she hissed.
"The ears have to be prepared in just the right way. If not, they are toxic. Not fatal, but I hope --"
A pirate glanced at them. Perig stopped talking.
He had poisoned the stew. She whispered a warning to Leweli.
"This is likely to be a long night," her cousin whispered in answer.
While the pirates ate, Perig and Cholkwa consulted. Their costumes and props were on the Taig ship, so they borrowed from the pirates and prisoners: a long red ragged cloak, a stained yellow tunic, a staff with impromptu ribbons. They set torches on long poles in the sand and drew lines to mark a stage.
Then -- the pirates full of food, but still drinking -- they began.
This was The Death of Eh Manhata, Cholkwa announced. A true story, acted by men whose native home was on the Great Central Plain. "We have not lied. This story is the way things actually happened."
The first scene was between Perig in the red cape and Cholkwa. Perig was Manhata: arrogant and confident, the greatest man in the world. Cholkwa was a younger relative, worried about his kinsman. He was too trusting, Cholkwa said.
The men who sought a meeting with him were liars. They would betray him.
Strutting back and forth, the red cape swirling, Perig said, "Nonsense."
It really was remarkable. Perig, who had always been mild and reasonable, in no way formidable, now held everyone's attention. It seemed to Ahl that he had grown in size. His stride was forceful. His voice commanded. Even the cloak had changed, becoming -- how could Ahl describe it? -- richer and heavier, fit for a great leader, a warrior without equal.
In vain Cholkwa argued. Perig would not listen. Off he went to the foredoomed meeting.
Cholkwa left the circle of torchlight, returning shortly in the stained yellow tunic. Now he was one of the false allies, a wheedling plausible man, who had been -- one sensed -- handsome in his youth and was still in the habit of behaving seductively.
How did Cholkwa manage this? His own good looks were mostly gone, and he seemed older. The stained tunic helped, making him look seedy, but it was something more. The way he held himself? His voice? He didn't command attention like Perig; and Ahl could still see him inside the character he played, the way one saw people inside festival dolls, when firelight shone through the stick and cloth bodies. Nonetheless, he impressed her.
Ahl leaned forward, intent. Around her the pirates and prisoners were silent.
At first Manhata was oblivious. The other man, the ally, praised, made promises, even flirted, though carefully. Manhata ignored the flirtation and accepted the praise, expecting nothing less. Gradually Cholkwa's manner changed. Sharpness
crept in. He began to mock the old warrior at the same time that he became more openly seductive.
A disturbing scene. Around her the pirates shifted and muttered. One stood up, stumbled into the bushes and threw up.
Understandable, though maybe it was the stew.
It took a long time for Manhata to understand what he was hearing. Finally he turned on the ally, shouting, "How dare you?"
The ally explained. The trap had closed. Manhata's men, the guard he'd brought with him, were dead by now. Manhata would join them soon. "You have lived too long and become a fool, deserving of a shameful death. I promise you, old man, that is the kind of death you'll get."
What happened next was impossible to understand. Perig barely moved, yet she could see every idea and feeling in his mind. Disbelief came first, then anger -- a brief hot flash, then fear. How was this possible? Manhata was fearless. As she watched, Perig grew smaller, collapsing in on himself like a festival doll at festival end, when the sticks that hold it up are folded. Now she saw Manhata's age. He was more than eighty at the time of his death. His life had been one of constant violence. Who knew how many injuries he had endured? Surely
his body must have reached its limit. And he was alone. His sisters, who had guided him through his long career, were dead. What was left for him, except his terrifying reputation?
Courage was left. She could see that now, as the old man straightened, meeting the gaze of his former ally.
"Do what you will," Manhata said. The pirates sighed. As they did, Perig stepped out of the torchlight. Cholkwa joined him. A moment later the young man returned wearing his own tunic. Now he was a messenger, bringing news of Eh Manhata's death. He stood quietly, looking out at the audience, and described what