cheeks again, and the woman, when she looked up from one of the sharsha’s legs and noticed, slapped Choufa across the face.
“Stop crying. You’re making my paint run, and they’ll do a bad job on you that way.”
Do a bad job of what?
she wondered. Nevertheless, Choufa made herself calm down.
Finally, the ugly woman was done. She called the priest over, and he stared down at Choufa. With one toe, he rolled her from her back to her stomach, so he could look at the painting the woman had done on her back. He left Choufa lying face-down on the mat. She heard him say, “Good work. Call them, and let’s get her done today. That will give us two days for purification before we go to the river.”
Choufa could make no sense of that. The woman was calling for “tabbers” though, and the sharsha didn’t have time to puzzle it out. Suddenly she was surrounded by men and women in short, pale blue silks. The painter, like the priest, pointed out parts of the designs drawn on her, and again like the priest, rolled her over with one point-toed shove.
She looked up at them. She counted nine, all grim-faced, who stared at various parts of her body.
“I’ll take the left leg,” one said finally.
Another nodded. “Well enough. I shall do the legend and the belly.”
“I’ll finish off the head,” a third volunteered.
Choufa lay and listened while the keyunu divided her up like bits of a roasted hovie. She tried to move her arms and legs, or even to turn her head or force her lips to form words. The drug the first woman had given her still held her in thrall. Whatever these people were going to do to her, she was helpless to prevent it.
They crouched, and a drummer came and stood beside them. The priest lit a bowl of incense, and a group of chanters formed behind the drummer, singing the drumwords in steady cadence—building power. The tabbers each picked up a pot and a needle—the needles were thorns of the giant thorn-tree, half an arm long and shaved to deadly sharpness.
The chanters and drummer increased their pace until they pulsed their way through a fast, hypnotic song with a dark, edgy, frightening beat.
On the beat, at some predetermined signal, the tabbers knelt.
On the beat, the dipped their huge needles into their pots.
On the beat, they pulled their green-dripping needles out of their pots and aimed them at the sharsha.
On the beat, they drove their needles into the sharsha skin.
The inside of Choufa screamed and begged mercy. The outside lay like one dead. And as the pain and fear overwhelmed her, Choufa dropped into the painless nothingness of unconsciousness.
She dreamed of fire—and drifted on the beat of the drums. In her dreams, the Keyu danced and beckoned to her, and their mouths gaped in horrid invitation. The ugly fat girl with no hair leaned out from one of the mouths, struggling to escape. Choufa noticed suddenly that the fat girl had no head—and as soon as she realized that, strangers in green-and-gold robes came and cut her own head off and carried it to the Keyu. Terrified, she struggled to wakefulness and felt her body respond. She screamed and flailed around—and immediately, a hand clamped over her nose and another cup of the burning liquid poured down her throat. Strong arms held her down. After a moment, her body went limp in spite of her, and after another moment, the searing pain of the needles returned.
The stabbing started on the palms of her hands and along the crease of her eyelids, and she fell back into welcome darkness.
When she woke again, her body ached and throbbed.
She was alone, and the long, hot day was past. Keyu’s Eye rode high in the sky, throwing pink light into the deep shadows of the jungle around her new, tiny prison. Her face was pressed into a mesh of woven twigs, while her knees jammed into her chest and her back crowded another woven wall. She lifted her head, and it throbbed and pounded as if the drummers of the day had moved inside her
“Stop crying. You’re making my paint run, and they’ll do a bad job on you that way.”
Do a bad job of what?
she wondered. Nevertheless, Choufa made herself calm down.
Finally, the ugly woman was done. She called the priest over, and he stared down at Choufa. With one toe, he rolled her from her back to her stomach, so he could look at the painting the woman had done on her back. He left Choufa lying face-down on the mat. She heard him say, “Good work. Call them, and let’s get her done today. That will give us two days for purification before we go to the river.”
Choufa could make no sense of that. The woman was calling for “tabbers” though, and the sharsha didn’t have time to puzzle it out. Suddenly she was surrounded by men and women in short, pale blue silks. The painter, like the priest, pointed out parts of the designs drawn on her, and again like the priest, rolled her over with one point-toed shove.
She looked up at them. She counted nine, all grim-faced, who stared at various parts of her body.
“I’ll take the left leg,” one said finally.
Another nodded. “Well enough. I shall do the legend and the belly.”
“I’ll finish off the head,” a third volunteered.
Choufa lay and listened while the keyunu divided her up like bits of a roasted hovie. She tried to move her arms and legs, or even to turn her head or force her lips to form words. The drug the first woman had given her still held her in thrall. Whatever these people were going to do to her, she was helpless to prevent it.
They crouched, and a drummer came and stood beside them. The priest lit a bowl of incense, and a group of chanters formed behind the drummer, singing the drumwords in steady cadence—building power. The tabbers each picked up a pot and a needle—the needles were thorns of the giant thorn-tree, half an arm long and shaved to deadly sharpness.
The chanters and drummer increased their pace until they pulsed their way through a fast, hypnotic song with a dark, edgy, frightening beat.
On the beat, at some predetermined signal, the tabbers knelt.
On the beat, the dipped their huge needles into their pots.
On the beat, they pulled their green-dripping needles out of their pots and aimed them at the sharsha.
On the beat, they drove their needles into the sharsha skin.
The inside of Choufa screamed and begged mercy. The outside lay like one dead. And as the pain and fear overwhelmed her, Choufa dropped into the painless nothingness of unconsciousness.
She dreamed of fire—and drifted on the beat of the drums. In her dreams, the Keyu danced and beckoned to her, and their mouths gaped in horrid invitation. The ugly fat girl with no hair leaned out from one of the mouths, struggling to escape. Choufa noticed suddenly that the fat girl had no head—and as soon as she realized that, strangers in green-and-gold robes came and cut her own head off and carried it to the Keyu. Terrified, she struggled to wakefulness and felt her body respond. She screamed and flailed around—and immediately, a hand clamped over her nose and another cup of the burning liquid poured down her throat. Strong arms held her down. After a moment, her body went limp in spite of her, and after another moment, the searing pain of the needles returned.
The stabbing started on the palms of her hands and along the crease of her eyelids, and she fell back into welcome darkness.
When she woke again, her body ached and throbbed.
She was alone, and the long, hot day was past. Keyu’s Eye rode high in the sky, throwing pink light into the deep shadows of the jungle around her new, tiny prison. Her face was pressed into a mesh of woven twigs, while her knees jammed into her chest and her back crowded another woven wall. She lifted her head, and it throbbed and pounded as if the drummers of the day had moved inside her
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