Читать книгу The Constant Tower - Carole McDonnell - Страница 18

CHAPTER 12

THE SLAUGHTER OF THE IDEN

As the Iden women neared their longhouse, Maharai recognized the markings of their domesticated animals grazing in the darkness. “Isn’t that Ghali?” she asked, pointing to her pet lamb.

“It is!” Gidea looked about, pouting. “Our men are useless! We leave for half a day and they allow the animals to escape! And now…with the third moon, there is little time to call them back home.”

“Why fear?” Ktwala spun around on her heels and made a gesture that took in all the Wheel Clan lands. “Sisters, we’re in Wheel Clan lands. The Wheel Clan, our ally, will anchor our longhouse here. Tomorrow our flutes will call our animals home again.”

In the distance, near the entrance of the Iden longhouse three Wheel Clan warriors stood looking out toward the forest. Maharai asked, “Shall the Wheel Clan warriors stay in our longhouse tonight? How shall we sleep with men boasting of their kills?”

Gidea laughed. “Oh wondrous our new life will be!”

The aged Nunu dance and sang,

“New life for us now.

New life for our women.

New life for Ktwala.

New life for the Iden Clan.

The Wheel Clan has conquered the night.”

They continued homeward, singing, Ouis racing ahead, overtaking Psal and Ephan who lingered along the way. Maharai hurried after him. Then a hand from behind a bush snared her foot. In the dark, Jion’s voice, an almost inaudible whisper:

“Little Spider, we are entrapped.”

“Old Jion!” Laughter as she kicked at the bush, chiding. “Hiding in the grass? Come, come, drunken one! Tonight the Wheel Clan warriors, our new allies, will teach you to keen our tower! And you lie there—”

She bent low and her voice left: Old Jion’s face was bloodied. He lifted himself slightly, then fell into the grass again.

“We…should not have trusted them,” Jion said. “Our brothers…murdered.”

Maharai could only reach those women who were close to her. She called them. They quickly gathered round. Terror struck, they held onto each other. Old Jion was lying in his blood. Meanwhile, the Wheel Clan warriors, already alerted by their singing, peered into the darkness.

“Ktwala,” Gidea whispered, “your new husband’s clan has destroyed us all.”

Maharai knelt beside the old man, held him close. “Old Jion, hold to life.” But where was Ouis? She stood to her feet, looked about. Past leaves, past boulder, no sight of her brother.

“Escape.” Jion’s voice frail, his tone futile, his eyes already looking past Maharai into the other world. “They want to steal you. Escape. Into rocks and caverns. Or be scattered.”

The women looked about at each other. Nunu was too old to run fast, other women carried small children. One was pregnant. The rest were little girls too young or too fearful to escape the Wheel Clan warriors who were almost upon them.

Words spoken in the Peacock dialect but tinged with the Wheel Clan accent called out.

“Your warriors are conquered but young boys are safe inside.” A scarred warrior approached them. “Attempt to flee, and they will die. Return with me and your children will live.”

Unseen by the Wheel Clan, on the right side of the longhouse, Ouis’ small arms made a stabbing gesture to his throat: All inside are dead. All.

The women trailed behind the Wheel Clan warriors, but some—urged on by Gidea—tried to escape. Some to the Wheel Clan fields, some to the hiding places in the Iden storerooms on the right of the longhouse where Ouis stood beckoning. But more Wheel Clan warriors appeared. The women fleeing were immediately overtaken. All but four were captured. Only Ktwala, Janda, Delo, and Maharai would join Ouis inside the secret entrance.

* * * *

Janda and Delo fled to the hidden compartments in the Salt room, the nearest to the secret entrance. Shaking, weeping, Maharai allowed her mother to push her inside the tiny wall of the granary.

“Don’t cry”—Ktwala’s whisper sounded even more distant in the dark room.—“All will be well. We will be well.”

Ouis was hastily hidden in the wall opposite Maharai’s. In the darkness, Ktwala’s hands warned her: Stay here. Keep yourself covered. Don’t leave until I come for you. Don’t worry for me. I’ll find a place to hide. Such animated, desperate gesturings. There were no hiding places nearby, none. Ktwala slipped out of sight, leaving Maharai struggling to stop her frightened panting. Both her breath and her body rebelled against her control. Flushed with fear, she tried to convince herself her mother was safe and determined to wait. Then footsteps approached her hiding place. She tensed. The door in her wall opened and Ouis stood before her, weeping.

“Why didn’t you stay hidden?” she chided and reached for him.

He began to speak but the room was flooded with torch-light. Strong hands grabbed both her and Ouis and dragged them into their gathering room. There, the bloodied bodies of her slain clansmen lay, dying or dead. Her grandfather’s nearly headless body lay crumpled near their useless keening room. Gidea and the Iden women stood weeping. Janda and Delo as well. Maharai searched the faces of her sister. Her mother’s face: not seen.

The king didn’t look at her long. He was speaking in the language of the Wheel Clan to the studiers who seemed to be defending something, someone, themselves—Maharai didn’t know. A loud blow across Psal’s face needed no translation. Psal stumbled backward and fell to the ground as the king, with bloody hands, beckoned to Netophah at the entrance. Flanked by two warriors, Netophah approached and pushed Ouis to the ground. The king shook the pain of hitting Psal out of his hand, and turned to Maharai.

“Where’s your mother?” He asked her in her own tongue. He looked down the hallway to the room where Maharai had been found. “Ktwala is here in this longhouse, is she not? In one of the secret compartments you Peacock people are so adept at creating?”

Maharai trembled as children do when they’re afraid or cold, and shook her head so vigorously only a fool would have believed her.

The king signaled the torch-bearers, spoke words the girl did not understand, then spoke to her again. “Don’t worry, I won’t burn the longhouse over your mother. But I will find her. Do you understand me?” He beckoned to Lan who immediately drew near, then he faced Maharai again. “Girlie, I asked this warrior to separate you and your brother from the male little ones. Why did you not listen to him?”

She could not speak.

“Your brother’s death is your own fault, do you understand? Sparing the life of a male enemy is something we Wheel clan warriors never do. I have appointed death to all Iden men found in your longhouse, yet I was willing to spare him. You understand that now I cannot allow your brother to live?”

She flung herself at his feet. The king pushed her away and Lan held her firmly by the shoulder.

“If you kill him, Nahas,” she shouted. “I will kill you.”

The king gestured to Netophah. How gently Netophah had touched her in the cave! But no such gentleness was found now when the golden-haired, crescent-eyed prince pushed Ouis to the ground. At this, many of the Peacock women turned their faces, weeping. But Gidea, beautiful and fierce, did not turn away. Nor did the old and broken Nunu, or the beautiful and passionate Tolika. And not Maharai. Gidea kicked hard against the two warriors who held her tight. Nunu wept, her gaze set on the bodies of her sons, grandsons, nephews, and her brother Iden.

King Nahas lifted his bloodied dagger, aimed to strike Ouis. But Psal grasped his father’s hand, shouting words Maharai didn’t understand. Raging at first, then kneeling and begging, he stood between Nahas and Ouis, his arms outstretched. Then Ephan also approached the king, pleading as well. Nahas listened in silence. Alternating or simultaneously, the studiers spoke.

When King Nahas answered them, he seemed to argue, question, challenge, defend.

Maharai and the Iden women watched the verbal battle intently, the third moon rising. Then the king spoke a word and Ephan stepped backward, suddenly silent.

Psal, however, continued pleading, his voice growing shrill and shaky and echoing through the Iden longhouse. Even when the king raised his hand and two tall warriors pushed him aside, Psal would not be quiet. Shouting, the king pushed Psal and he turned on his bad leg and fell to the ground. King Nahas uttered another word. Psal grew silent.

The lame prince looked helplessly at Ephan, then at Maharai, then at the Iden women. He didn’t look at Ouis. The king spoke again and Prince Psal raised himself from the bloody floor and opened the Iden doors. Maharai knew then that all was lost.

How beautiful the Wheel Clan language! The king’s words were bright as light, tinkling like water, but Maharai knew them to be heavy, dark, blood-filled words. The king then called Ephan. Ephan bowed to the king then raced toward the granaries where her mother hid unseen.

Now to Ouis’ death.

Sharp blades can slit a throat clean through with one stroke. Ouis did not die quickly, as storytellers who sing praises to swift blades and to pale-skinned warriors would have you believe. Not for me such songs of so-called glorious battles. I’ve seen too much of dark death, and the death of dark peoples to sing songs that praise war. Let white-skinned storytellers exult in blood-letting.

Ouis lay on the ground, his hand clutching his neck, his mouth seeking breath, his pleading eyes turned to his sister. Netophah’s dagger hacked at him as butchers hack at livestock. When he died, he was like meat drained of blood. Lan’s strong hands held Maharai tight. She grasped them and bit deep. Lan winced, slapped her hard across the face, and she felt herself flying toward the bloody longhouse wall. There, fallen, her face and back aching, she watched helpless as Netophah kicked her brother’s hand from the bleeding gashed neck. Then the Wheel Clan heir knelt beside Ouis and took his own blood-stained dagger and cleanly ripped the boy’s throat open.

In her annals, Maharai said she must have shrieked to see this murder, because Tolika later told her she had done just that. However, Maharai writes that if sound or shriek escaped her mouth she did not know, because death had touched her before it touched her brother. It must have, for she had grown numb as she watched his death throes and could neither speak nor breathe.

* * * *

Through the plaited bamboo lid in the little inner storeroom, Ktwala peered. Through the latticework of the barrel’s cover, she saw: the red daubed ceiling of her destroyed longhouse. She heard: the death agonies of her betrayed clansmen—their horror echoed from its walls. Around her, the smell of spices mixed with blood. Her body trembled, she stilled herself. Inside the barley container, tears washed her face. She stopped the sob from rising from her throat.

Loving words, she thought, deceiving words. And yet…his heart seemed true.

In the near distance: booted footsteps trampled the floors of the Peacock longhouse; her brothers’ voices fading, surprised to find themselves suddenly outside of life; the quick rip of human flesh.

In Ktwala’s mind: Ancient stories of prevailing warriors. Triumphant tales told by Peacock Clan studiers of worlds: Blood-soaked enemies their braided hair split from their split skulls. In her heart: Nahas loving words, deceiving caresses. Your children will be as my children. Ktwala’s mind reeled.

Near the barrel, a Wheel Clan warrior was speaking in her language. She drew her breath slowly, quelled her body’s inner trembling. A carved wooden club lay between her cramped legs. She thought: Why do I sit here safely hidden? But sense stayed her hands; she did not rise. Barley fell from between her fingers. I must live and avenge my destroyed clan.

In the gathering room, Nahas shouted in the tongue of the Peacock Clan: “Iden women, you did not know we warred against your Peacock Clans. Nevertheless, your brothers must die. And you cannot go free. Iden women, tell where Chief Iden’s daughter hides.”

Ktwala’s heart pleaded: “My sisters, my aunts, my daughters, do not betray me.” The Peacock women heard her heart and remained silent.

And Gidea said, “Ktwala raced toward the large cliff. She jumped into the river.”

Nahas’ voice: “We will anchor here tonight. If her body is in the river, it will rise up again.”

Away, fading: the weeping voices, the commanding voices. Away, drifting: dying voices within the longhouse. Yet, nearing: footsteps. And soon someone leaned against the locked container, blocked light.

Ktwala heard: two voices speaking in the Wheel Clan tongue. Through the latticework of the barrel’s cover, Ktwala saw: pale hands touching the top of the container, twisting.

She held her breath; the cover lifted, light broke in. From above, the face of the pretty pale studier looked down upon her, his eyes and mouth wide open, surprise in his eyes.

A male voice called him from behind: “Ephan!”

Ephan looked up, away from Ktwala. His eyes squinted toward the unseen speaker. He turned again to Ktwala, smiled in wonderment. Ktwala’s eyes pleaded. Ephan stared at her, silent. He pushed his long white hair behind his shoulder and replaced the container’s cover. The footfalls of the warriors trailed away.

* * * *

Furious, angry, his leg and hip aching, Psal attempted to keep pace with the rising third moon and the Wheel Clan warriors. He felt like one awakening from a Rangi-induced dream. He wished to wake from guilt, from atrocity, from the sense that he had failed utterly to save a good and innocent people. But as he looked around him in the dark forest, the Iden women were bound, struggling, kicking, biting, weeping. It was no nightmare. The home region suddenly seemed harder to navigate and the royal longhouse painfully far away. Before him, Nahas dragged the screaming Maharai by her right arm. In the lead, Kwin struggled with Nunu. Cyrt, Deyn, and Lan struggled with the bound Tolika and Gidea. Behind Psal, the rest of the warriors dragged the other Iden women.

The royal longhouse warriors—intent only on subduing the women and hurrying homeward—were mostly silent, speaking only intermittently to threaten. But Orian seemed unable to stop speaking and railing against Nahas. That Wheel Clan warriors should treat the Iden women as sisters of a marriage alliance! That Nahas should not take the Iden tower! That Nahas should allow the hidden Ktwala to remain inside! He went on and on, annoying Psal more and more as he spoke.

When they arrived at the doors of the royal longhouse, Nahas spoke at last. To Psal, Netophah, Gaal, and his chief captains while the other Wheel Clan warriors took the bound Iden women—all but Maharai—inside. The king held Maharai firmly, even as she kicked him and bit his right hand.

“Firstborn,” the king said. “You, too, Cloud—you’re to keen Ktwala’s tower to follow in our wake. And to keen the Qerys to join us at the home region.”

“If that one’s child is a boy,” Orian said, looking at a bound pregnant woman being pushed into the longhouse, “it should be killed.”

Psal caught Orian’s gaze. “If the unborn child is a boy,” he said, “I have determined it will become a steward in our clan. Furthermore, these Iden women must be allowed forty-nine days to grieve for their brothers.”

Orian stared at Psal in the torch light, spoke to Nahas. “My king, in the old days, kidnapped women quickly forgot their lost clans and were quickly bedded. Why should we treat these enemy captives with the honor and respect due to women of nobler clans?”

“Orian,” Nahas said, “I have had your fill of advising me.”

But Cyrt grasped Orian by the collar. “Enough! I am tired. I desire sleep. Not your rambling about the golden days of the old king’s rule. Continue and you will find yourself anchored in the dark climes. I will personally see to it.”

“Orian,” Lebo said, “our Nahas still remembers the old strife when Wheel sub-clans fought each other. But few here are honorable enough to speak of it. You are not of the king’s sub-clan. Nor were you reared in the royal longhouse. Nor were you part of the king’s marriage tribe. You might try to remember that.”

Orian lowered his head. “I did not wish to dishonor Nahas.”

A tiny rivulet of tears streamed in the white clay on Maharai’s face. Psal forced himself not to look at it. “Nahas, Ktwala is a chief’s daughter and intelligent. If she is in the tower as we believe, she will not leave it. She knows the Wheel Clan does not easily cast aside towers. And if I set her tower to follow in our wake, she will see the pattern and know her tower is not truly night-tossed. I have listened to the Iden tower and it desires to enter the cold climes soon. If it follows its desired path, it will. But we battle the Peacock Clans in clement region Therefore—”

Ephan interrupted him. “Nahas, this sudden love of yours…consider…the morning may have been full of loves, but hatred swallowed the night. This woman whom you say you love, for whom you keep an oath to her sisters, tomorrow search the tower and find her. Or, are you fearful of looking her in the face? Are you fearful of being shamed in the woman’s eyes?”

How bold this King’s Favorite is! And how patient this king toward him! Psal awaited the king’s response.

But Netophah answered for the king, “Father wills to break Ktwala’s will,” he said. “And remember your place, Ephan. Favorite you may be, but do not think too highly of yourself. If you would rebuke the king, rebuke him privately.”

“Truly, Ephan,” Lebo said, “if you had questioned the old king as you now question his son, you would not live to see the next day.”

“I have not finished speaking.” Netophah touched Lebo’s shoulder. “As you already know, Ephan, Peacock Clan women fear isolation. If Ktwala travels alone, her heart will be broken and remade toward her new clan.”

Ephan persisted. “But if she travels alone—”

“The Voca will not touch one in our wake,” Nahas answered impatiently.

“That was not my worry,” Ephan said. “Outlaw longhouses abound. Many of them without towers. Therefore they cannot be tracked.”

“Psallo, Ephan”—Maharai spoke suddenly—“I wish to see my mother.”

Netophah glanced at her, but spoke to Ephan. “Chief Bukko is Psal’s near kinsman and a trustworthy ally. Let our studiers send a message to his tower with the Iden harmonies. He will befriend her. There is no need to tell the Voca. They will see our wake and understand she is under the protection of our truce.”

The meadows were already tainted with bloodshed and treachery and the double moonlight had grayed the sky. Blood red clouds streaked above the Nahas longhouse. As Psal entered the royal longhouse, his own tower raged at him because of the Wheel Clan treachery.