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Niaba daubed her fingers into the mud in the bowl before her and smeared her cheeks and breast with the streaks which signified mourning. Her young bronze face was tight and grim as she looked at the infant lying on the blanket next to her. Once again, she felt the surging grief which pushed up from her deep well of sorrow, and she drew a shuddering breath.
The infant cried, almost musically, and her breasts responded, tingling as the milk released. Though she knew it was of no use, she could not refuse the child sustenance and, cradling him tenderly, she nursed her blighted son. Murmuring softly to him and cooing, she comforted not only the spirit of the child to whom she had recently given birth and who would soon die, she comforted her own spirit as well. As the boy suckled, there came that sense of well being and of being in love that comes with the giving of milk, mother to child.
Abruptly, startling her, her husband brushed back the blanket which served as a door covering. She looked down at the ground as he glared at her futile attempts to nurture a child which everyone knew would surely die.
"You do him no service," he growled at his woman. She responded with silence, continuing to nurse the child. Gratefully and, unaware of his prognosis, the infant drank lustily, his cheeks and chin drawing rhythmically upon his mother's breast.
"Bah!" Yokan rumbled. Angrily, he snatched his own blanket from beside Niaba's and left the adobe dwelling. He would sleep this night in his brother's home, and all the nights of the next Moon, according to the custom of the people.
Niaba lay back on her blanket, the child lying beside her, nursing contentedly. She examined him again, seeking the answers to unanswerable questions in his twisted little body. She searched his small form in the dimming afternoon light.
The boy child looked more like a broken, hairless rodent than a human. He had all his toes, five on each foot like any infant, but there the resemblance to other children ended. His feet were clubbed like paws, the toes curling under. Surely no child could ever walk on such feet, and if a child could not walk, how could he live? How could he plant and harvest, or hunt with such feet? What woman could he take to his own dwelling, how could he woo her? His legs were like thin brown sticks, his knees prominent. His hips showed no deformity and his penis and scrotum appeared to be not only normal, but well shaped and abundant. His belly would have seemed proper had it not protruded at an abnormal angle due to the odd shape of his back. His spine arched like the bowl of the young Moon, making his chest appear sunken and his belly distended. And his arms! Much too long compared to his spidery legs and those hands with their fingers! Six fingers each, surely the mark of some evil sorcery, though he grasped his mother's finger with vigor and strength. His shoulders hunched unnaturally, but his face showed smooth and handsome, like his father's. The infant slept now, but when awake, his eyes were clear and bright, displaying an alertness which belied his infant status and conveyed some unspoken knowledge and wisdom contained within.
Niaba's emotions roiled in a mixed stew of maternal love and revulsion, of pity and despair, of hope and wistful prayer that the Great Spirit had intended this wastrel child for some purpose other than to crush his mother's spirit and break her marriage bond. She, too, closed her eyes and dozed, recalling his birth three days before. She was young and strong, long of leg and broad of hip, belly and bosom: the ideal wife to bear strong and many children. Chosen above all other women to bed Yokan and provide him hearth, she had joyously wed the object of her earliest desires. Soon her belly had swollen with the child he planted and the community happily anticipated the birth of their young prince, of the warrior son who would one day lead them. The medicine woman, Kokan-han-o had foreseen his glory and his triumph, the hope he would bring his people, and the great gifts he would share with them and with others. Her visions had foretold his travels as ambassador to others peoples far to the south, to the future, to the peoples far to the west and up onto the Plains, thus solidifying and increasing the communication and the trade between all the peoples of the fourth world.
Niaba's labor had been brief, intense and preternaturally powerful. Kokan-han-o had said that she had never seen a first mother so possessed with the power of the life-giver, and without fear. For Niaba had had no fear, no pain, really, only sweeping surges of life force rolling pushing pulling her body her spirit her mind her feelings like a pulsing storm of creation; she had never felt so alive . . . and then the calm came and the child was delivered of her and the pain and disappointment were palpable in the small room and she had cried out to see her child, her warrior son, her people's hope and with sad eyes and heavy hearts the swaddled infant had been laid within her arms with the words, "He'll not live the turn of the Moon, bent and broken so. Know it now, my child, that your sorrow will not be multiplied."
And she had looked then, into those eyes, that face, so clear and knowing, his bent body buried in the blankets and she had fallen in love, fallen in love as all mothers do when birth is so powerful, when the process is so like being the Great Spirit giving birth to the world. And, uncovering the tiny body of her newborn son, her love was shattered and broken, splintered into this fractal emotional mosaic which now constituted her inner landscape. Niaba, though she did not know it, had served her single most important purpose in this world and would never again be the same as before.
Now, tucked at his mother's bosom upon the blanket woven by his grandmother, the infant murmured in his sleep, and Niaba, too, slept.
The music tilted and lilted across the canyon walls, splashing across the river, dusting the fields, echoing against the people's dwellings high above the valley floor. Niaba followed its lead, out the window, down the face of the cliff wall, across the greening new fields and the rushing spring river, up and over the far mountains. Beneath her she could see the vast and sweeping desert floor, it's brooms and brushes, erstwhile trees, scraping the air clean until the desert thinned and bore grasses. The grasslands evolved into low shrubs and a riotous variety of trees. Over more mountains and valleys, blue and crisp, dusted with white powder, filled with fragrances and an abundance of life to a sandy shore and blue sea beyond. The music slowed, wispy now, now whispering, whispering and soon the words became clear. And beneath it all the slow and comforting drum pulse of life.
Out of the waves arose a giant being, blue and bigger than the buffalo, spewing foam and mist from its head, its great eyes shining black and singing, singing with the music and though it did not speak, exactly, she knew what it said and the message soothed her broken heart. She looked to the North and saw frightened warriors huddling beneath snowy skies and then the music touched them and they drew robes of fur and wool about them and emerged from their place strong and sure. She looked to the east and saw women mourning, sorrowing until the music touched them and they began to weave baskets and blankets and shape clay into tools. She looked to the South and saw children, orphaned and alone until the music touched them and they became young men and women and they danced and lit fires and stacked stones one upon another. When she at last looked to the West again, the whale had gone, but the music remained and it carried her back, back across the mountains and the valleys, the sweeping desert, the far mountains, and the rushing spring river, the greening new fields. Up the cliff wall and back to the infant son sleeping peacefully and satiated at her breast. And Niaba was renewed and certain.
The small strong untroubled spirit romped and cascaded across the waves and rivers of sleep's movement, body fed and full, contented while the animating spirit played and splashed in the freedom of spirit's pool. Joyously, the spirit of the unnamed infant sang with blue grandfather in deep blue waters, soared with feathered brother in bright blue skies and danced with silver cousins in cascading blue falls. And, graciously unknowing with regard to the path which lay before him, the child in innocence and without guile, without language, without fear rejoiced with music in the life and the spirit which spawned him, unaware of his troubles and difficulties and unconcerned in the way that only the truly innocent and fresh born can be.
Kokan-han-o stirred her stew without appetite. Though she knew her body required nourishment, she had had no appetite these past days. Since the birth of the afflicted child, her spirit and her mind were deeply troubled and allowed her no rest, and she felt her years weighing heavily upon her heart and her body. Long had she served these people - her people - as guide, guardian and mentor. Most had been delivered at her hand, many healed at her touch, all guided by her words, her visions. But a deep crack had appeared in Kokan's world, a crack which emanated from the foundation of her very soul itself and radiated out now into a spider's web of fractures along all the lines of her reality. Never had she been so badly shaken.
Never before had her visions failed her. Never before had the spirits misled her. Never before had she been given cause to doubt the truth of her Sight, the wisdom of her Knowing, the validity of her Training. For over fifty summers she had provided the spiritual strength, had been the Voice of Spirit, the very backbone of her people's wisdom, knowledge and action.
But this . . . this was beyond her ken and it stirred deep and darkling demons within. Those demons swirled and eddied up from that crack, that void and raged within her troubled spirit; self-doubt, the weakening of faith, and the darkest demon of all - fear. That fear gnawed at her now, at her belly, her gut and made the stew in the bowl before her completely unpalatable. Disconsolately, she set her bowl in the dirt and stared at the low, flickering flames of her small fire. No teaching, no experience could have prepared her for this journey. True, she had seen and felt and battled dark spirits before but this was different. There were no stories, no event, no teaching she knew of which fit not only the pattern but the feel of this.
Suddenly restless, she arose and banked her fire until she was left with only the glowing coals. These she covered carefully to preserve them and pushed aside the blanket to stand out and look at the night.
The sun had set behind the far mountains, but its light still shone in pinks and purples upon the clouds. To her right the stars had begun their night vigil and the Moon had not yet risen. From her vantage point on the hill across from the village she observed the evening activities. The village was quiet, subdued, for all had felt the impact of the birth of Yokan's son. None held hope that he would live and, while Yokan would surely sire more sons, all signs had indicated that this one would be the great messenger of change whose birth was foretold. That he would surely die was an evil omen, and one in which the people felt abandoned by the Great Spirit. Already the seeds of doubt and dissension had begun to take root in the people's hearts, and while some believed and gave voice to the opinion that they themselves had brought this upon them, others held to the idea that Koko-han-o had betrayed them, and still others held quietly and close to their hearts the hope that the boy would live and be whole. It occurred to none of them that the boy would live as he was, surely not long enough to walk in his father's pathway.
Kokan's eyes swept across the small vale between her hut and the village. It was filled with various debris and garbage now, but soon the rains would come and wash away the broken pottery and the bones and the refuse of the dry season. The rains would wash it all down, down into the deep valley, taking it across the planted fields where it would fertilize and aerate the soil, running through the channels the people had cut to nourish the crops, and finally the last of the debris would rush into the Great River on its long journey to the south.
Crickets had begun to chir in their evening chant and Kokan walked. She followed beside the water's path, along the edge of the wash, across the fields with their new shoots (walking carefully along the edges of the channels so as not to bruise next winter's food source) to the river itself, rushing at this time of year from the runoff of snows melting to the north. She forded the river at its low and rocky place, the chill water tugging at her knees and wetting the edges of her maguey tunic.
Climbing up the far bank, she startled a herd of deer come to drink the water's fresh goodness, but Kokan took no notice of them for she had begun to hear something, something far off and carried in the wind, something like music. She followed the ancient and worn pathway which zig-zagged up the face of the cliff wall. When she had climbed halfway, the crescent Moon had begun to rise and the stars were quite vivid in the rapidly darkening sky. Above her, just over the rim of the cliff face, the sky still glowed a faint violet with the rays of the setting sun. The clouds had thinned and scutted across the face of the Moon, translucent with its light. A light wind blew along the river's path, lifting Kokan's dark and graying hair in wisps about her face. The sound became clearer now, like a long and keening note, beckoning, luring her further on. The valley below her was dark now and she continued upward toward the sky.
The music beckoned and called, now audible on the wind, now silent, ebbing and receding like a tide. The old woman continued to climb, trance-like, toward the sound. Cresting the ridge line, far above the now dark valley, Kokan emerged upon an elevated mesa. Here the stars filled the sky, not only overhead, but plunged all the way to and beyond the horizon, seeming to spill off the edges of the mesa, like cascading water into the valleys below. Here the wind danced across the flat and grassy upthrust of land, gently tonight, though Kokan had known other nights when the winds could torture, frighten, and punish those who dared the mesa.
Here resided the spirits which guided Kokan in her visions. It was here that only those trained and skilled in the ways of the spirit world dared to trespass. It was here that Kokan and others before her had come to fast and pray, seeking the vision that would guide their lives. And it was here that she came tonight for spiritual comfort and understanding. She strained her ears to find the music in the wind, but it was gone now and there was only the lonely grassy expanse before her. She shuddered.
She was frightened in this place tonight, though the wind only lifted and caressed her hair with the barest of breaths. Frightened and fragile, Kokan was a strong soul newly broken and her self-doubt made her vulnerable in a way she had not been since her first visit here nearly 50 summers earlier.
Suddenly, she felt small, like a child again, alone and whimpering against her mother's knee while they burned the village. But that was long ago, why should she think of it now? Small, yes, and young and vulnerable, but at the same time, very old and very tired.
Her fear and despair wrenched her now, and she cried out to the wind in a long wail of mourning and loss. She beat her breast with closed fists and collapsed to her knees as she cried, as though the wailing were the sound of her breath and her strength escaping her body, leaving her to crumple upon the dry grass. The wailing went on a long time, escaping the dark ache in her soul and spreading across the mesa, carried on the wind, to spill over its edges, along with those brilliant stars, into the world below.
At last, the strength and power of the wailing subsided, and she sobbed weakly, her cheek laid against the grasses, her nose full of the soft and dusty smell of them. Exhausted now, Kokan drifted into a soft and troubled sleep.
She awoke to the sound of the music. Close now and clear, she sat up in the crunching grass and looked around her, seeking the source of that soul stirring sound. Suddenly, it stopped and she heard laughter behind her.
Turning, she beheld a young man, standing there, half bent over, his foot on what appeared to be a bag or a pack of some kind, his elbow propped on his knee, both hands wrapped around a reed flute, his face alive with his laughter.
"Kokan," he said, gently, "For whom do you cry?"
Sighing, Kokan spread her hands in helplessness before her. "For myself and my people."
"What has happened to make you wail so? Are your people not sleeping safely in their valley tonight? And you, you appear to be whole still. A little rough for the wear, but solid enough."
He laughed at his own joke, his long black hair catching the moonlight, his face lit by an inner radiance as his bright teeth flashed between rich, full lips. Dark eyes gleamed with amusement above strong cheek bones. Had Kokan been even 10 summers younger, she might have fallen in love.
"It is true that my people are sleeping safely in their homes tonight, but they are troubled, as am I." She hesitated, ashamed to admit her failing to this charismatic stranger. "But, but, . . ."
"Ahhhhh. . ." said the stranger with a knowing look, "it's the child."
"Yes, it's the child. That and . . ."
"And the visions you had. And the reality you see now."
"Yes." Kokan began to cry softly again, as his words stroked the wounded place within, releasing fresh pain and grief.
The stranger put the flute to his lips and began to play. Soothing strains of melody caressed her pain, and mesmerized her spirit. She rocked, sitting in the grass, and all thought or need for thought left her.
Awhile later, she became aware that the music had stopped. Opening her eyes, she saw the stranger now sat in front of her. His elbow rested on his other knee now and he peered at her half over one shoulder. The setting Moon cast him in silhouette as the wind lifted his hair and she saw clearly the shape of his back, rounded like a buffalo hump, and she knew.
He laughed again and vanished, though his laughter lingered in the wind a moment longer. Then, far away, from the valley behind her she heard again the sound of his music.
Copyright 1996-2005, Catt Foy. Reprints by permission only.
