They would heave sighs of relief, and then cheer and dance as it rose in the sky, for it meant life was going to continue.
As Laliari cradled one of the motherless little ones in her arms, her thoughts drifted to the baby she had given birth to a year ago. The moon had given it to her shortly after Doron joined the clan. The infant didn’t live long, however, and Laliari had had to take it away to the craggy hills in the east and leave it there. Many times after that, she would look toward the rising sun and imagine her baby there. She wondered if his ghost was unhappy. She had felt a curious tug to go back to that spot, but it was bad luck to be near the place of dead things. If someone died in a hut, the hut was burned down and the clan moved farther along the river to set up a new encampment.
Looking back on the time of her baby’s sickness and death, Laliari could only blame herself, for surely she had unwittingly offended a spirit so that it punished her by killing her child. And yet Laliari was always so careful to follow the rules and obey the laws of magic and luck. Was that why their territory had been invaded by strangers followed by the death of their hunters in the killing sea of reeds? Had the entire clan somehow overlooked something? Then how were they to hope to survive in this new place when they didn’t know any of the rules?
She knew it was bad luck to think of the dead, yet it brought such comfort to fill her mind with memories of Doron. How they had met, for instance. The annual Gathering of the Clans took place every year during the inundation when the river overflowed its banks. Thousands came from up and down the valley, erecting round shelters and hoisting clan symbols. It was during the Gathering that disputes were settled, kinship lines drawn, alliances formed and reinforced, news and gossip shared, debts paid, revenge meted out, and most important of all, family members exchanged. Those families with few women received women from families with a surplus. And those short on men, vice versa. It was a lengthy and complex process carried out by all parties, with elders intervening in instances of conflict. Doron and another young man had been exchanged for two young women from Laliari’s clan. Laliari had been sixteen and she and Doron had spent a week covertly scrutinizing each other. It had been a time of shyness and excitement, of awakening instincts. Laliari had never noticed before what wonderfully strong shoulders men had—Doron in particular—and nineteen-year-old Doron had found himself flustered at the sight of Laliari’s narrow waist and flaring hips. By the time the annual gathering had broken up and Doron had gone with Laliari and her clan to their ancestral land, they were spending every night in each other’s arms.
Suddenly overcome with grief, Laliari rested her forehead on her knees and began silently to cry.
Down at the water’s edge, another soul was racked with grief. Alawa, looking out over the expanse of water, had come to a painful decision: this was how the boys must die—by drowning, as the hunters had died.
She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw Bellek’s familiar silhouette emerge through the tall reeds. He stood beside her for a long moment, his bony chest rising and falling in labored breathing. He had known for some time that Alawa was coming to an important decision. She is getting ready to choose her successor, he thought.
He would have liked to have a say in the choice, but only the Keeper of the Gazelle Antlers knew who the next Keeper should be. It had nothing to do with opinions and votes but with what the spirit world wanted, what the gazelle spirit wanted. And only Alawa knew what was in her dreams and what her magic stones were telling her.
“Is it to be Keeka?” he asked softly, hoping it was not. Keeka possessed a streak of gluttony that he feared might be detrimental to the clan. If the choice were his, he would pick Laliari because the
As Laliari cradled one of the motherless little ones in her arms, her thoughts drifted to the baby she had given birth to a year ago. The moon had given it to her shortly after Doron joined the clan. The infant didn’t live long, however, and Laliari had had to take it away to the craggy hills in the east and leave it there. Many times after that, she would look toward the rising sun and imagine her baby there. She wondered if his ghost was unhappy. She had felt a curious tug to go back to that spot, but it was bad luck to be near the place of dead things. If someone died in a hut, the hut was burned down and the clan moved farther along the river to set up a new encampment.
Looking back on the time of her baby’s sickness and death, Laliari could only blame herself, for surely she had unwittingly offended a spirit so that it punished her by killing her child. And yet Laliari was always so careful to follow the rules and obey the laws of magic and luck. Was that why their territory had been invaded by strangers followed by the death of their hunters in the killing sea of reeds? Had the entire clan somehow overlooked something? Then how were they to hope to survive in this new place when they didn’t know any of the rules?
She knew it was bad luck to think of the dead, yet it brought such comfort to fill her mind with memories of Doron. How they had met, for instance. The annual Gathering of the Clans took place every year during the inundation when the river overflowed its banks. Thousands came from up and down the valley, erecting round shelters and hoisting clan symbols. It was during the Gathering that disputes were settled, kinship lines drawn, alliances formed and reinforced, news and gossip shared, debts paid, revenge meted out, and most important of all, family members exchanged. Those families with few women received women from families with a surplus. And those short on men, vice versa. It was a lengthy and complex process carried out by all parties, with elders intervening in instances of conflict. Doron and another young man had been exchanged for two young women from Laliari’s clan. Laliari had been sixteen and she and Doron had spent a week covertly scrutinizing each other. It had been a time of shyness and excitement, of awakening instincts. Laliari had never noticed before what wonderfully strong shoulders men had—Doron in particular—and nineteen-year-old Doron had found himself flustered at the sight of Laliari’s narrow waist and flaring hips. By the time the annual gathering had broken up and Doron had gone with Laliari and her clan to their ancestral land, they were spending every night in each other’s arms.
Suddenly overcome with grief, Laliari rested her forehead on her knees and began silently to cry.
Down at the water’s edge, another soul was racked with grief. Alawa, looking out over the expanse of water, had come to a painful decision: this was how the boys must die—by drowning, as the hunters had died.
She turned at the sound of footsteps and saw Bellek’s familiar silhouette emerge through the tall reeds. He stood beside her for a long moment, his bony chest rising and falling in labored breathing. He had known for some time that Alawa was coming to an important decision. She is getting ready to choose her successor, he thought.
He would have liked to have a say in the choice, but only the Keeper of the Gazelle Antlers knew who the next Keeper should be. It had nothing to do with opinions and votes but with what the spirit world wanted, what the gazelle spirit wanted. And only Alawa knew what was in her dreams and what her magic stones were telling her.
“Is it to be Keeka?” he asked softly, hoping it was not. Keeka possessed a streak of gluttony that he feared might be detrimental to the clan. If the choice were his, he would pick Laliari because the
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