Tortall and Other Lands: A Collection of Tales Page 2

  Iyaka, who was seventeen, returned quietly. Mama told us the good news. A chief’s son, a young, wealthy man named Awochu, had seen Iyaka race. He had fallen in love with her. It was odd for young people to choose their own mates, but Awochu’s father could not deny his only son. It did not matter that Iyaka’s dowry was tiny. For a bride price Awochu would give us thirty cattle and accept Papa’s blessing in return. Awochu would marry Iyaka at the next trade fair.

  “What can I say? I am so honored by my family-to-be,” Iyaka said when we begged for details. “Thirty cattle will make Papa rich and respected. I could not have refused even if I had wanted to.”

  When she put it that way, she made me ask myself what I would say when a man’s family offered for me. I thought about it as I watched over my cows the next day. Did I want to be married? I would have to leave my days on my beloved plains and never see the world beyond. I would retire behind a wall like the one around our village to weave, cook, sew, and bear children. No more watches for game at the watering hole. No more entertainment from zebras and giraffes. No more gazelle and cheetah races.

  I could wait to marry.

  Still, every girl must turn thirteen, and so did I. The time of the trade fair came around. Our whole family went to Nawolu for Iyaka’s wedding and my first fair. Nawolu was a walled city on a deep river, beyond anything I had seen on the plains. In the distance towered a lone mountain dusted with a white powder on the top. Everywhere there were travelers, animals, bright cloth, and flawless animal skins. I thought my eyes would burst from all the new sights.

  Our village had its place on the fairgrounds outside the walls. Before we had even pitched our tents, friends from other tribes came to visit and stayed for supper. Our chief finally sent them away so we could sleep. In the morning we would wash and dress in our finest to meet Chief Rusom, who governed Nawolu and the lands around it.

  I was close to sleep when Mama whispered, “I did not see Awochu.”

  After a very long silence Iyaka said, “He did not come.”

  In the morning we girls fixed our hair, put on our best dresses, and decked ourselves in our few pieces of jewelry. Then, with our mothers to guard us, we went to the fair. There was so much that was new. I saw the wonders from the world beyond my plains and felt a tug on my heart, a call to see where it had all come from. What exotic creatures wove the wispy cloth called “silk”? Who made fine jewelry from countless tiny gold beads, and small stone pots of cosmetics? What ingredients went into the strange new perfumes? I wanted to know these things. The people who sold the goods would only point and name a country, or a city, and speak in strange languages.

  Our companions drifted away until it was only Mama, Iyaka, and me going from booth to booth. We were having a good time on our own when Iyaka suddenly fell silent. Mama and I looked up. Here came a handsome young man, well muscled, with the scars of a warrior on his cheeks and chest. A girl clung to his arm like a vine. She wore a blue silk dress and so much gold jewelry that it was impossible to tell if she was truly beautiful or simply dressed in money.

  The young man, who also wore gold, halted. She had to halt with him, and to stare as he did, at Iyaka. The blue silk girl looked at Iyaka, who had gone pale, and she smirked. At my sister, who was more beautiful than she without jewelry or silk!

  “Awochu,” Iyaka whispered. The young man in gold licked his lips as if they were dry.

  Mama stood in front of Iyaka. “Is this how you act before the family of the girl you are to marry in a week?” she asked sharply. “You parade this fair with a strumpet on your arm, mocking my daughter’s good name?”

  The girl with gold scowled. She will have wrinkles before she is thirty, I thought as I put an arm around my sister.

  “She is no strumpet!” said my sister’s betrothed. “She is my bride-to-be. I will not honor a contract with a witch and the family of a witch.”

  Mama put her hands on her hips. “My daughter is no witch, you pompous hyena! You slander her name and ours to speak so!”

  “She put a spell on me last year,” said Awochu. “My father’s shaman cured me of her spell. Now I will have nothing to do with a witch!”

  A crowd was gathering. People are jackals, always willing to feed off someone else’s kill.

  “You signed a marriage contract in blood,” Mama said. “You did it with your eyes open and your mama bleating like a sheep, saying there were girls ‘more worthy of you.’ More worthy, with Iyaka and her family and chief standing right there! The only witchcraft was in you knowing she wouldn’t lay down for you without marriage, and you being like a spoiled baby who won’t hear no!”

  “She put a spell on me!” Awochu cried. “She put it in the stain she used on her lips, so I was half-mad.”

  “Witch,” someone whispered behind me. I whirled to glare and saw people crowded all around us.

  “Unlawful to spell a man into marriage,” a woman said.

  “Oh, no,” Iyaka said. She shook out of my hold and walked up to Awochu, her muscles tight with anger. “You courted me with flowers and sweets and promises until I barely knew my name. You pursued me because I said no that first day, when you kissed me like a barbarian. And now you sully my name and the name of my family?” She spat in the dust at his feet and looked at the blue silk girl. “You want to be watching now,” Iyaka told the other girl. “This is what you want to marry. He will blame you when things go wrong between you.” Iyaka turned her attention back to Awochu. “You want your freedom? You may have it—after you pay half my bride price for breaking the contract and lying about me.”

  He had looked arrogant, then petty, then furious. Now he looked smug. “I pay you nothing,” he told Iyaka. “Not to one who uses magic for love. Nawolu chief Rusom judges all trade fair disagreements. He will know what to do.”

  He marched off to the chief’s pavilion. We had no choice but to follow, to stop him from lying to Chief Rusom. The witnesses followed, eager for the sight of someone else’s quarrel and judgment.

  Luckily, friends heard Awochu’s claim and ran to fetch our tribe. By the time we could see the chief’s bright red pavilion, Papa, our shaman, and our own chief had come, with my kinfolk. My heart swelled with pride. All of our village had come to stand with my sister. Surely Chief Rusom would see that she was a girl of good family, the kind who would never use magic in a foul way. He would order Awochu to admit to his lie before everyone, so my sister’s name would go untainted.

  In order to hear the many people who came to speak with him during the day, the chief had the pavilion floor raised up a foot from the ground. He and his companions could then sit under the shelter of the canopy and talk with those who stood on the beaten dirt before them. We moved to the front, passed along by the people who knew why we were there. Iyaka clutched my hand and Mama’s and would not let go. I had to move into line behind her as she stood with Mama, Papa, and our chief.

  Awochu bowed to the man who had to be Chief Rusom. I glanced at the man on the chief’s right and almost gasped like an ignorant country girl. I had never seen a man so pale-skinned. Everyone in my life was brown or black. Some of the fair’s visitors were a lighter brown than I had ever seen before, but it was still brown. This man—this man was white.

  He had brown-black hair, straighter than the hair of anyone I knew. His eyes were brown-black, close to the color of normal eyes. He didn’t dress like a normal man, though. He wore a loose cloth jacket and a garment made of two cloth tubes that covered each of his legs, instead of a long skirt. Instead of sandals he wore soft leather shoes that covered his feet and legs all the way to his knees. Only his hands looked right. They were hard, muscled, and scarred, the hands of a warrior. His neck was muscled like a bull’s.

  “Do you know who that is?” Ogin had worked his way up behind me. I looked at him. His eyes gleamed as he looked on the white man. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stand still.

  “No, but he looks very sick,” I whispered.

&nbs
p; “Pf,” Ogin said, pushing me a little. “You know the stories of the Shang warriors, who fight and kill with bare hands? That man is Vah-lah-nee, the Shang Falcon. He is a great warrior!”

  He looked like a man, not a legend, to me. “He is a horse who will burn and bloat and explode in the sun,” I replied. “Put him back in the oven and let him cook until he is done.” I looked at the platform and got a very bad feeling. Awochu had left his blue silk girl beside the platform and climbed on it to go to the man who sat at Chief Rusom’s left. He kissed this man on both scarred cheeks. This man wore gold on his arms and fingers. He also looked enough like Awochu to be his father.

  Worse, there was a hospitality table placed between his seat and Rusom’s. He and the chief shared food and drink, like allies or friends.

  “Awochu, why have you brought these people?” asked the man Awochu had kissed, his voice filling the air. “Why do you disturb Chief Rusom?”

  Awochu bowed to Chief Rusom. “Great Chief,” he said with respect, “I come to you as a wronged man. Last year at this fair I was overtaken by a madness that made me want that girl as my bride.” He pointed at Iyaka. “After I stole a kiss from her, I could not sleep or eat unless I was with her. I offered her my name and the wealth of my family. I begged my father and mother to accept the match with an ordinary plains girl.” He shook his head in sorrow. “When we returned to our own great village, our shaman saw the traces of magic on me. He kept me in his hut for nine days and nine nights to cleanse me of the evil spell. He told me—he will tell you, if you ask it—that the girl had painted charm color on her lips. When I stole that kiss, magic made me hers. It made me desire her to the point that I had signed a marriage contract with her family.

  “Great Chief Rusom, is it not the law that no contract entered into while under the influence of magic is binding? For so my honored father explained the law to me. I owe this girl nothing. She cannot have me, so she accuses me of a false claim, in order to steal my father’s cattle.”

  “I do not steal!” cried Iyaka. “I happily release him from the contract. I do not want a man who is so fickle or so easily swayed.” She glared at Awochu’s father and the elegant woman who stood at his back, who had to be Awochu’s mother. “But he has sullied my name and the name of my family with his accusation of love magic. He must pay half the bride price for his lies. He should be grateful I do not ask for it all. You see?” She took the delicate skin on which the contract was written from her sash, unfolded it, and offered it to Chief Rusom. “It is written there. If I release him, he must pay half the bride price to me. If he lies about me, he must pay it all and apologize for his evil, and admit he lied.”

  “It is she who lies!” cried Awochu. “It is also written that if I am forced to this or lied to about her honor or her maiden nature, I am free of the contract!”

  Chief Rusom read the document carefully, his eyes flicking to Awochu, to Iyaka, to my parents, to our shaman, and to our chief. He did not look at Awochu’s father. Instead, when he reached down to that hospitality table for his teacup, Awochu’s father picked it up and filled it, then gave it to Rusom. It was as plain as a baboon’s red behind: Awochu’s father would find a way to fill Rusom’s cup if the chief could help his son.

  Rusom let the contract fall. “When there is such disagreement, and good names at stake, there are several ways to resolve the matter,” he said in a voice like oil. “But involving magic …” He stroked his chin. “No, I think it must be trial by combat. The gods will allow the innocent side to win. Awochu?”

  “I fight my own battles,” Awochu said, thrusting his chest out. His eyes held the same gleam as those of the chief and his father. He knew the way was prepared.

  “Me,” Ogin said, thrusting his way past Papa and me. The Falcon, Vah-lah-nee, was also getting to his feet, as if a white man knew anything of us.

  The chief was already shaking his head. “It must be a member of the girl’s direct family,” he said, proving he knew quite well who we were.

  Papa took a limping step forward. The gleam in Awochu’s eyes brightened.

  I thrust ahead, noticing only then that I was as tall as my papa. “I will fight,” I said, though my voice cracked when I said “fight.” I ignored the laughter of everyone and made myself say, “She is my sister. It is my name, too.”

  “No!” cried Mama. “I forbid it! She is a girl! She is no warrior!”

  But Rusom already was shaking his head. “Do you believe the gods will help you, girl? This is no time to thrust yourself into serious business if you are not serious.”

  I trembled and sweated as I made myself say, “I believe in the gods.” What I believed in was the ostrich gods, the giraffe gods, the lion gods. This dishonorable chief knew nothing of them.

  “If the gods decide, then surely it only matters that she is of the girl’s blood,” said Chief Rusom. “I call for the combat when the sun leaves us no shadow.”

  All was noise then. Mama and Papa scolded me. Iyaka hit me with her fists. My chief told me I was a fool and had cost my sister and my papa their honor. The gleeful crowd followed us to the enclosure set aside for trial by combat. Servants came to take away Awochu’s golden ornaments as his girl poured a cup of wine for him. His mama set a stool in the shade for him to rest upon while he waited for the proper time.

  Ogin and the white man brought a stool for me. They made me sit and drink some water. Gently the white man, the Falcon, placed hands like iron on the muscles between my neck and shoulders. I felt him hesitate. Then he raised my hands, examining my callused knuckles. He probed my back muscles with those hard fingers, then bent down to look at my legs and feet.

  “Well,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth, like dark honey. “Perhaps this is not the folly it looks to be.” His Dikurri accent was thick, but I could understand him.

  Of course, peahen, I told myself. He sat with the chief. They must be able to talk.

  He was asking me something. I turned to look up at him. “What?” I asked. My lips felt stiff.

  “What do you wear under your dress?” he asked slowly, as if he knew I could only truly understand slow speech just then.

  “How dare you!” cried Mama.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Your daughter cannot fight in a dress,” he said kindly. “The women warriors of the Chelogu tribes fight entirely naked, in tribute to the Great Mother Goddess. I think your daughter may wear a little more than that, but a skirt will hobble her like a donkey.”

  “She is a donkey,” my mother whispered, her lips trembling. “A stupid donkey who does not understand what she has done here.”

  “She wears a breast band and a loincloth,” Iyaka said.

  “If they are snug, that is enough,” said the Falcon. He told me, “Can you remove the dress on your own?”

  I plucked at my sash until it came apart. Someone pulled it away, then Iyaka took the dress. I do not know why Mama was so upset. I raced in no more than this at every festival.

  The Falcon crouched behind me and began to work the muscles around my collarbone with those iron fingers. They spread warmth and relaxation down into my arms. “What is your name, girl?” he asked me, his voice coming from behind me like a ghost’s.

  Ogin answered for me. “Kylaia,” he said, his eyes as over-bright as Mama’s. “She is Kylaia al Jmaa.”

  The Falcon picked up one of my hands and began to work on it. Across the arena, servants rubbed oil into Awochu’s shoulders. “Kylaia,” the Falcon said for my ears only, “who taught you to fight?”

  I blinked at him like a simpleton. “The ostriches,” I said. “The killers of the plain.”

  “She is mad,” Papa said abruptly. “I will make them stop it. I will fight him.”

  The Falcon said, “It is in the gods’ hands now, sir. I do not think they have chosen badly.”

  By the time the sun left us no shadow, the Falcon had loosened the muscles in my arms, back, legs, and feet. I was as relaxed as if I had just finished a
quick sprint to get my blood warm.

  Someone struck a gong to signal it was time. I walked out to the center of the arena, ignoring the comments of the crowd. If they were properly bred, like the people in our village, they would no more laugh at a maiden dressed to show her body’s skills than they would laugh at a woman giving birth.

  Awochu met me at the center. Rusom’s shaman droned a prayer. I ignored him. My eyes watched Awochu. He would want to hit me hard and fast, to get it over with, so he could enjoy my sister’s shame. I had said my prayers. Now it was time for me to take down this hunter who had come into my territory in search of meat. He was stronger on his right side, the muscles of that arm clearer than the muscles of his left. He would try to grapple with me, as the young men did in unarmed combat. If he actually took hold of me, I would be in trouble. He was taller, stronger, heavier. He had fought in battle to earn his scars. He had fought with his hands.

  Now Rusom had something to say. He spoke, then stopped.

  Awochu shifted his feet for his balance.

  Someone struck a gong. Awochu lunged for me, his hands reaching. I pivoted to one side and ostrich-kicked him. The ball of my foot slammed just under his ribs with all the speed and strength I had built up. He gasped and turned to grab my kicking leg, but I was already behind him. He was so slow, or so I thought then. I did not understand that all those years of repetition had not just made me a fast runner. All that practice on wood and trees and stone, pretending they were living lions and leopards and wild dogs, had made me a fast kicker, a fast mover, a fast hitter. With my speed I also gained power behind each blow and kick.

  I drove the ball of my other foot into his right kidney. He staggered away from me and fell to his knees. I lunged forward and hammered my linked fists giraffe-style into the place where his neck met his collarbone. He grabbed my hands as he wheezed from pain. I bounced up and came down with my knee in the middle of his spine. He straightened up with a strangled cry, letting me go. Then I wrapped my arm around his neck from behind, gripping that fist with my free one. I pulled back, resting my knee against his spine for leverage. He clawed at my arm, ripping my flesh with his nails.