Svaha, page 29
"It changes mine," Manitouwaub said.
Slowly he raised his hands and removed his helmet. He dropped it on the ground where it rolled to Gahzee's feet. One by one he undid the decam suit's fastenings until it, too, lay on the ground. Unencumbered by it, he stepped close to Gahzee and embraced him.
"I have missed you, Grandson," he said.
Gahzee welcomed the embrace. "And I, you."
"Madness," Kitchi-Zaudee muttered.
"No," Manitouwaub said. "If my grandson has the courage to teach the Outlanders, then how can I not help him?"
"Your grandson strives desperately to regain what he has lost," Kitchi-Zaudee said. "His motives are less then altruistic. What we should—"
"These girls are fucked," the Ragman broke in. He looked disdainfully at the remaining three elders and their guards. "Why don't you get the hell outta here? We don't need your shit."
Suddenly, the sound of drums spoke from out in the night. For a long moment no one spoke, then one by one they turned to look out past the Enclave flyer to the source of the sound. From the shadows beyond the light cast by the flyer, figures approached, seven in all, three women and four men. Two of them carried the drums slung from their shoulders, fingers speaking against the taut skin.
They were old, but they wore their age with power. There was medicine in their every step, strength in their carriage. Their eyes were so bright they almost appeared to glow. Four were of the People, though their facial features proclaimed that each was of a different tribe. One was a tall black man, his skin as dark as the Ragman's, his face bearing the ritual scars of the Masai. Another was a Maori woman, a thin figure with large brown eyes. The last was a Soyot, a small dark man, wizened like a dried apple.
"Who the fuck are they?" the Ragman muttered.
Lisa took Gahzee's hand. "The Kachina-hey?" she guessed.
Gahzee shook his head. "They are Twisted Hairs."
Thunder rumbled in the sky, closer now than it had been.
"Spirits are talking," one of the Twisted Hairs said. He had the flat broad features of the Anishnabeg, a powerful frame of a body unbent with age. His grey braids hung to his waist. "They say, 'Gahzee needs a home for his new tribe.'"
"This is not your concern," Kitchi-Zaudee said. "You are the spiritual guides of the People—not their political leaders."
The Twisted Hair grinned. "Hey now, Kitchi-Zaudee. And what are the People without their spirit? What are their poli-ticks? Shall we ignore the spiritual growth of a new tribe of People?"
The elder had no reply.
"Heh," the Maori woman said to him. "Do you think you know better than the kehua, little brother?"
The word she used meant ghost in the Maori tongue, but no one misunderstood her meaning. Thunder rumbled again. Spirits talking.
"What will be the medicine of the People," the Anishnabeg Twisted Hair asked, "if they no longer pay heed to the wisdom of the manitou?"
"The councils of the other Enclaves will protest," Chief Zhawano-Geezhig said in an uncertain voice.
The Twisted Hairs laughed and they all began to speak at once.
"Protest what?"
"Wisdom?"
"The turn of the seasons?"
"The Wheels of life?"
"The advice of the Twenty Count?"
"Peace?"
"Beauty?"
"The manitou have spoken," the Anishnabeg Twisted Hair said. "Through us. Through our little brother. Will you deny their wisdom?"
Zhawano-Geezhig and Mino-Nodiniquae bowed their heads, ashamed. Chief Zhawano-Geezhig unclipped a control unit from his belt and silently handed it to Gahzee. With it Gahzee could now open the barrier that enclosed Maniwaki Enclave.
"Does this mean we all gotta learn about these frigging Wheels?" the Ragman muttered.
Gahzee could tell he was joking, but the Masai Twisted Hair gave the Ragman a mild look that spoke volumes. "Is it so wrong to seek a harmony between your brothers and sisters, and your mother the earth?"
The Ragman gave him a toothy grin back. "Hell, no, Jack. I'm just itching for a spin."
It was just starting to sink in. Everything he'd worked for was coming through. He turned to look at squats rats and chinas who'd accompanied him.
"We're going home, girls," he said.
"It is a hard task that the manitou have set you, little brother," the Anishnabeg Twisted Hair said to Gahzee, "but we will help you as we can."
Another Twisted Hair, one with the features of a Hopi, added, "Begin small. Too much, too soon, makes for a weak foundation."
Good humour ran infectiously through the group. Two of the Enclave guards, both medé as well as warriors, removed their decam suits and came to join Manitouwaub. The Ragman slapped Gahzee on the back and bent down to give Lisa a kiss. Lisa held on to Gahzee's hands, happy, but a little scared. The steady pressure of his fingers around her own helped comfort her.
Only Kitchi-Zaudee saw no reason to rejoice. What was, should remain. The tribes had reached out a hand to strangers before, in long generations past, only to have their hands cut from them. Why should they risk the long years of enslavement again?
"You should name your tribe's new home Despair," he said, "for that is what you will bring to the People."
"No," Gahzee said, looking at Lisa.
"We'll call it Svaha," she said, "to remind us of all the time we waited and hoped."
The Twisted Hairs smiled. The two drummers tapped their palms against the skins of their instruments. The Anishnabeg Twisted Hair took out a spirit pipe, lighting it from a coal he kept in a small clay jar. He drew the sacred smoke in, released it to the sky, then let the pipe begin the journey from hand to hand.
From the shadows beyond the flyer's lights, the high-pitched yip-yip-yip cry of a coyote arose.
Thunder rumbled almost directly overhead.
Spirits talking.
Think not forever of yourselves,
O Chiefs, nor of your own generation.
Think of the continuing generations of
our families, think of our grandchildren
and of those yet unborn, whose faces are
coming out from beneath the ground.
—The Peacemaker,
founder of the Six Nations Iroquois Confederacy
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank the following for the loan of their expertise and their enthusiasm (hastening to add that any mistakes are my own): Lynn (Moonwolf) Bedrock, Charles R. Saunders, Midori Snyder, Rodger Turner, and, as always (because the books would be so much less without her input), my wife, MaryAnn.
About the Author
Charles de Lint is a full-time writer and musician who makes his home in Ottawa, Canada. This author of more than seventy adult, young adult, and children’s books has won the World Fantasy, Aurora, Sunburst, and White Pine awards, among others. Modern Library's Top 100 Books of the 20th Century poll, voted on by readers, put eight of de Lint's books among the top 100. De Lint is also a poet, artist, songwriter, performer and folklorist, and he writes a monthly book-review column for The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. For more information, visit his web site at www.charlesdelint.com
You can also connect with him at:
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https://twitter.com/#!/cdelint
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Cover art by Donna Gordon (https://www.facebook.com/Donna-Gordon-Fine-Artist-567194853397720/).
Cover design by MaryAnn Harris.
Svaha
First published by Ace Books, 1989. This Triskell Press edition published in 2015.
eISBN 978-0-920623-66-4
For information:
Triskell Press
P.O. Box 9480
Ottawa ON K1G 3V2
Canada
www.triskellpress.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Discover other titles by Charles de Lint at Smashwords
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SVAHA (novel, Ace, 1989)
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GREENMANTLE (novel, Ace, 1988)
JACK, THE GIANT-KILLER (novel, Ace, 1987)
YARROW (novel, Ace, 1986)
MULENGRO (novel, Ace, 1985)
THE HARP OF THE GREY ROSE (novel, Starblaze, 1985)
MOONHEART (novel, Ace, 1984)
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Charles de Lint, Svaha
