[piosenniel]

Morning time/new day

‘Jamilah!’

The voice outside her tent flap was insistent. She woke from her strange dream of trees and stars, swimming up to consciousness through the images of light that played behind her eyes. On an ordinary morning she would have reached for the little basket beside her mat; the one that held her bones, the ones she used to check the patterns of her dreams. A long slow breath and then a quick flip of the wrist would send them arcing to the floor, falling into heaps and scatterings that spoke to her. But not today.

‘Jamilah!’ the voice called again. ‘Are you there?’

‘One moment,’ she called back, slipping on her blouse and wrapping her skirt about her. She pushed her mat to the side, and hurried to the front of the tent, drawing back the flap as soon as she got there. The dark head of Duha poked through, followed by her generous body.

‘So sorry, so sorry to wake you,’ she said, her hands fluttering nervously with the hem of her shirt. ‘Ismat has sent me out . . . to you and the other Elders. You're the last.’ Jamilah was silent, inclining her head toward the fidgety woman, urging her to go on. By now Duha’s fingers had twisted the fabric of the shirt into a tight wad, and a small tear trickled down one cheek.

‘What is it, Duha? What has got you into such a state?’ Jamilah’s face turned an ashy color, remembering that Ismat had planned to go out to the bush to speak to the young people last night. ‘Ismat, he is not injured is he,’ she said, alarmed. She drew near the other woman and placed her hand on Duha’s arm.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Ismat is fine. It is our son, Munir. He has come back.’ Duha’s voice quavered a little as she spoke.

‘But surely that is a cause for rejoicing, not this long face and tears that I see.’ Jamilah looked at the other woman with concern. She took Duha’s hands in hers and led her to the mat, bidding her to sit down. She poured a cup of cool water for her and waited patiently while she collected herself.

Duha sat the cup carefully on the ground beside her and began to tell how just before first light, she and Ismat had been awakened by the sound of someone scuffling through dirt outside their tent. Ismat had gone out, only to find Munir, ragged and dirty, his face a mask of bruises, crouched down behind the little stack of wooden crates that stood near the back wall of their tent. His nose was bloodied, his shirt torn. And he cringed in fear when his father called his name and reached for him.

They had beaten him, he told them, once he had been brought inside the tent. He could not stand the thought of being cut off forever from his family, and he had told them he wanted to go home. Five of them dragged him into the center of the circle the others had formed around him. They called him names, called him a traitor, and they beat him with their fists and sticks, and kicked him when he fell to the ground. The others stood round watching and calling out taunts of their own. Only Jasara had said nothing, he told them, just stood there silent, her eyes dark and glowing, a look of satisfaction on her face.

Then Khasia had called to them, telling them they must be away from the camp before the dawn. ‘Leave him! He is nothing to us.’ The others had swirled about her and Jasara, carrying them along, out of sight and into the darkness. And when they were gone, little Sama’ had crept up to him from behind a thick bush where she had hidden. ‘Take me home,’ she had told him, putting her little hand in his. ‘I want to see my mami!’ Munir brought the little one to her family’s tent, watching as she entered.

‘Then he came home to our tent, but he was so ashamed he could not enter and face us. It was only after his father reached down for him, and pulled him to his feet, drawing him close with his arm about his shoulders, that Munir came in.’ Duha looked up at Jamilah, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘He’s only a little boy. Just ten this last new moon. They turned on him like animals. Save for the fact that Khasia called them away to do her bidding, they might have killed him.’

Duha’s hand strayed to knife she wore at her waist, the one she used for gathering roots, or skinning small game. She spoke in a low, clear voice.

‘I will kill the next one of them who comes near my son.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jamilah walked back to the tent with Duha. The other Elders were already there. Munir, his eyes ringed by haunted shadows, sat close to his father, answering their questions in a whisper. And often his voice was muffled as he turned his face into the folds of his father’s shirt, when the memories were too awful to say aloud.

As she entered, Munir’s words fell into the silent pool of the Elders’ attention. ‘She talks often to something,’ he said, ‘though we never heard another voice. And sometimes her face goes blank almost, and she cocks her head as if listening to a voice. Her eyes grow large and dark, and she nods her head as if to say she understands what she is told.’ He looked up fearfully at his father. ‘She knows things, too. Like when something is going to happen. She’ll say it, and then it will come true.’

Jamilah sat quietly down next to Asim, the head of the Wild Dog clan. His face was grim as he sorted out the boy’s words, then grimmer as Munir continued.

‘They hate everyone who isn’t young like they are.’ He raised his head and looked out at the gathered Elders with a fearful face. ‘And they hate you especially. Jasara says your time is over. She says that you should die.’

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The clan Elders, stepped outside the tent, leaving Munir to the loving arms and gentle ministrations of his mother, while they spoke of what they had learned. They took the boy’s words seriously, and a certain level of alarm grew from them.

Faruq, Elder of the Wind Scorpion clan, announced he was going again today to speak with Ishak ben Ishak. ‘He intimated there was some trouble among their youth also. He should know what we have learned now about ours. If it is the same sickness of spirit, then perhaps together we can find some way to take care of it.’ Jamilah approached him saying she wished to go with him. She would speak with Briellah. Perhaps it was not just their two tribes whose children had become infected. A time was set, when the sun had moved three finger widths above the rim of the world, they would go, accompanied by five warriors.

Jamilah walked slowly back to her tent, to get her herbs and medicines for trading. A little cool water splashed on her face refreshed her, and she pulled on a clean shirt – one that Briellah had embroidered round the cuffs and hem for her. She put the wooden chest that held her herbs and medicines into one of her carry baskets, and tucked the basket cradle she had finished last night beneath her arm. As a precaution, she found her husband’s knives, still sharp in their sheaths, and hung them round her waist with a slim leather belt. Ready, she hastened out the door and to the spot appointed for their departure.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Word was passed to all the tribe’s members of what had happened that morning, a shortened story of what the Elders had heard from Munir. The warriors of each clan were martialed into more frequent duty by their leaders, and the members of the tribe drew in together to protect themselves and their families. The tribe became more watchful, and their weapons, once hung on the poles of their tents as seldom used decoration, now hung from their belts. And their hands, so it seemed, strayed near them often . . .

[ August 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]