P.O.V.
by SpunSilk
Part five: Gentle
This High Shaman had odd ways. In the beginning of our time together, he would often take my face in his hands when I was talking to him, or when he was talking to me, and move my face upward to have me look him directly into-the-eye. He liked this. This action he needed to repeat many times over the days we had-together, for it was unnatural to me. But I eventually made myself more comfortable with it, for he did desire it so.
One morning the Kolch'ak started what I took to be a game. He drew a fish for me in the pounded-dirt of the court-yard, then gave me the outsider's-word for this. (How can a word-of-one-beat be large enough to contain the meaning of a whole object?) I gave him the real-word for the drawing, gave him the word 'fish', and after learning it, he got a crafty look about him and, erasing the fish, drew a tree. He pointed to this with question in his eye and I said "Tree." He smiled. Again he erased and drew a bowl. "Bowl," I told him. This was followed by 'monkey' and then by 'hut'; each time I gave him the real-name, and his excitement grew with each new word.
The High Shaman then pulled out his bound-leaves and patterns-stick to be at-the-ready: he caught me in a cunning gaze and drew a new drawing.
I could not give him a word. This drawing was not clear. I turned my head this-way and that-way to guess what this might be. He leaned forward on his stool and watched me, like a hunter watching a rabbit slowly approach his trap.
"What is this?" I asked.
"What-is-this!" he repeated back, his eyes bright with delight. "What––is––this!" he repeated again slowly, while making small patterns with his stick in his bound-leaves. Then he frowned at the patterns a while. After practicing silently a few times, he turned to me and, picking up my basket, asked; "What-is-this?" using real-words!
"Basket," I grinned, realizing what he was doing. He clapped his hands once, in victory, and laughed heartily. This sound of his delight gave me great-pleasure.
The rest of the afternoon, that question was asked many, many times; with me, and with other members of the city. He gathered new words with both-hands and by evening had some 50 objects he could name, using the real-words of the People. His melody-of-speech was un-graceful, but understandable. No matter; I was convinced that – if he could survive the smoke trance! – we could teach him to speak afterwards. My imagination was dream-happy with the thought of ideas-sharing-together with him once this was accomplished.
When he caught me staring straight at him (which happened often –I must confess – for my wayward eyes became more hungry, not more sated, in the looking) he never took offense. Not once. I think it pleased him, if such a thing can be true. And I do believe it can be true. The High Shaman was like no other man I had ever known, and broke expectations at-every-turn.
I began to think I may never see this Shaman angry, or violent. No, I correct my story – one time. This is how it happened: I was examining his magic time-boxes which were covered with small round decorations – like flattened beads which intrigued me; but when the Kolch'ak entered and saw me with them in my hand, he raised his voice in a loud cry. My first thought was Ay! I have finally found the place where his anger has been hiding! Now it comes! I let the boxes fall onto the sleeping-pallet, and throwing myself in a corner, I covered my head with my arms and braced myself for the first blow.
But it did not fall. When I opened my eyes a sliver, I saw he had run first to examine the boxes before disciplining me. I cowered, and in-spite of shaking with fear, I waited obediently. I did not run – as some women do – for in my panic I still reasoned; how could I possibly hide from this powerful Shaman? Where could I ever go to escape him? I held my arms protecting my head, whimpering, and strongly hoped the beating would be just a normal beating, and contain no magic.
When he had entered, his voice had been angry, but his voice reversed-its-course as soon as he turned to face me in my corner. His voice was distressed, but I was too-tight with fear to understand. He came towards me talking soothingly, like one would to a frightened child. I flinched when he first touched me, but the blows I dreaded never came. He joined me then in the corner and gently pulled me to him. Ay! I was frightened. He held me in a timid embrace, clumsily stroking my hair, and talking on and on in his own strange words. No beating. No anger.
After a while, once I was calm, he showed me the boxes (held well outside my reach) from all sides, to relieve my curiosity, then motioned his desire that I not touch them again. I never did.
One other time I heard him yell, but not in anger. No. In fear. This is how that happened: It was middle-night, and I awoke to find him talking, no – fighting in his sleep. He tossed from this-way to that-way and murmured panic under his breath. I was worried, and cooed, "Wake. Wake – you are safe."
At that moment he sat up-right straight and voiced a loud cry that would have frighten the best warrior. He flailed in the darkness, and I sought to comfort him with, "Kuu-ru-ku! Kuu-ru-ku. It was a night-story! Only a night-story... Kuu-ru! Kuu-ru-ku" My hands found him in the darkness as he fought; he was covered with sweat, his breathing was hard and fast, and his heart-beat with it (which I could easily feel when I touched him). I rubbed him soothingly and cooed my assurances. He said, with cracking voice, 'Pocahontas?' Then he finally seemed to realize where he was, and fell back as dead-weight onto the pallet. I felt his hands cover his face, and for a while his breathing stopped altogether as he held his breath tight while he struggled with emotion that was too big for his chest. But then he released his frazzled mind over to it, and gave two deep sobs before he pushed it back under control. He rolled away from me, curled up monkey-style, and shook silently until the fit left him, all-the-while I stroked his back and cooed my assurances. My heart wanted to move right out of my chest with co-emotion. What panic was this? Truth, this must be anxious thoughts of what lay ahead for him in the smoke-trance –– for, what other experiences in a man's life could possibly be so terrifying? I put my arms around him and held tight until finally, spent and calmed, his mind returned fully to the real-world. He rolled slowly onto his back again and allowed me to hold him. After a long while he spoke to me many words in a quiet voice in his own tongue, and shuttered the last of the night-story away. We lay silent together for a long time.
That morning I awoke to find myself held, firmly, by him in his deep sleep – as if, in his unconscious state, he were grasping at something he needed desperately.