Ha'x mibli Kao-a so su-Yilakili : The Sound of a Few Words Ringing

The Memoirs of Kilomela-Jann Urmonaxi

A Saiyan Among The Korud-Jin

V.

De Xislid Ma: Let It Be So

The great house on the hill, the ancestral home of the Urmonaxi clan, was a sprawling two-story structure of brick and plaster with a tiled roof. The construction of the house, coincidentally, had begun in 211, the very same year that Makadamia wrote the oft-recited ode to his tail. As the family grew larger and more prosperous, newer wings and extensions had been successively added to the original structure. The architectural styles of these additions were oddly inharmonious; red bricks here, gray ones there, a chipping mosaic on the eastern roof brackets, steel latticework protruding from the windows facing west. Clotheslines were strung about the property like strings of festival flags, sheets and undergarments flapping in the breeze. A stunted tree with a network of exposed roots grew close to an open window, bent low as if it were trying to peek inside. Although the outer walls had been neatly whitewashed, the paint had begun to chip off ,revealing molding layers of yellow and brown beneath.

As Jann-Run, Mama, Talarin, Apuru, and I made our way up the hill, I felt as if I had walked this way many times before. The iron gate that protected the front entrance had been left ajar, and Jann-Run easily pushed open the wooden door behind it. I remembered the great care my mother had taken to lock the doors of her apartments on the rare occasion that she did go out. Saiya-jin did not trust easily, and kept their best possessions safe from the prying eyes and sticky hands of strangers.

We crowded into the vestibule, where approximately thirty umbrellas in various hues and sizes had been stacked against the wall, a puddle slowly spreading beneath them. Jann-Run, Mama and Talarin removed their muddy boots, and left them near the door.

"It is not proper to track mud inside the home," said Jann-Run. I arranged my new boots next to Talarin's worn ones. They were blue and shiny like a first-prize ribbon.

The spacious front room of the house was bare in comparison to my mother's parlor, but there was ample evidence of the household's activity strewn about the room. A card game had been set out on a low table, the hands of each player abandoned face down in each corner. Two dolls with thickets of braided hair sat upright in a basket, as if they had been enjoying an imaginary boat ride on the Dindala. Two newspapers, edges curling in the humid air, had been set down next to a pair of half-empty teacups.

Immediately, I noticed something irregular about the furnishings. Although there were rectangular cushions and woven mats arranged on the floor, there was not a single four-legged chair. I then realized why Talarin had taken such great care to ensure that the upholstered chair from Vegetasei arrived in Urmon undmaged. To him, an ordinary wooden chair was a source of great curiosity and a symbol of unattainable luxury.

"Follow me to the kitchen now." said Talarin excitedly. "Everybody is in the kitchen. We have interrupted the evening meal."

The kitchen was located at the center of the main house, connected to the other rooms by a network of passageways. The kitchen in a Korud-jin household is the center of family and social life. Relatives and friends filter in and out with news and complaints while small children bathe in the sink and their mothers bake bread.

Around a single long table that stretched from wall to wall were crowded no less than thirty-two strangers. They sat on mats with their legs folded under them, reaching for bowls of stew and plates piled high with rounds of flat, golden bread. Trays of pickled vegetables and whole fish, split open and bursting with steam, were passed in a clockwise fashion. Each diner had his or her own plate, but no utensils were used, save serving spoons. The tender flesh of the fish was eaten off the bone, and the stew scooped up with hunks of bread.

A roaring stone furnace heated an ancient brick oven so large that a man as tall as Talarin could stand up and lie down in it. Blackened iron kettles and pots hung from pegs on the walls. Salted fish, herbs and dried fruit were strung in colurful clusters on the ceiling. Open cabinets revealed sacks of salt, jars of spices, cans, canisters, and cellophane packets bearing bright labels with mysterious text.

I stopped in the doorway beside Mama and Apuru, intoxicated by the smell and the warmth and the beautiful noise of the kitchen. Apuru shrieked joyfully.

As the herd senses predators in its midst, the Urmonaxi clan immediately fell into a still silence. Thirty-two pairs of eyes stared at me accusingly.

The man at the head of the table stood up. He was in the autumn of his life, his arms made thick and sinewy by years of planting and harvesting. He wore a black tunic and a mustard-colored sash that sagged under his bloated torso. His feet were bare, revealing toes that were flattened and bent by years of walking long distances without shoes. Habitual consumption of black tea had yellowed his teeth, and two silver fillings gleamed above his lip where the enamel had rotted away.

The patriarch of the Urmonaxi clan, as well as all of the men present, bore the same ritual tattoos on their faces and hands, symbols of a common heritage. The patriarch kissed both Talarin and Jann-Run on their foreheads as they bowed to their father in greeting.

The patriarch turned his piercing gaze toward me, then looked at Talarin. Talarin looked at the patriarch. The patriarch looked at Jann-Run. Talarin looked at Jann-Run. Jann-Run looked at the patriarch and then at me. I looked at Mama. Apuru squeaked. I held my breath.

Apuru placed the end of his tail in his toothless mouth and drooled. He enjoyed the attention he was receiving from the crowd of onlookers.

The patriarch threw his head back and laughed. The kitchen exploded with sound, as the diners started arguing amongst themselves, shrugging, wagging fingers at one another and gesturing at my brother. Two small girls with tangled thickets of silvery hair began to chase one another around the table, stumbling over their skirts.

"X'inda-ok-bat!" bellowed the patriarch. The children stopped their game. The adults abruptly fell silent again.

Jann-Run addressed the crowd. "Yar Kilomela. Yar ma'i em, x'au tab. De xisilid ma."

"De xislid ma." echoed the patriarch. He placed one hand on my head and one on my brother's. "Let it be so."

The diners nodded, and clapped enthusiastically in agreement. Mama smiled broadly. I was offered a place at the table, between Jann-Run and the patriarch, who continued to preside over the meal like a jovial god, pleased by our arrival,yet ever watchful.

Apuru was immediately set upon by several women who squeezed his cheeks and fed him spoonfuls of porridge that dribbled down his chin. They watched his tail with fascination, as if it were a curious parasite that had attached itself to an otherwise ordinary child. Apuru banged on the new copper cooking pans with a spoon. Ding.Ding.Ding. Briefly, I worried that the adults would scold him for making so much noise, but none of them seemed to mind, having grown accustomed to the sounds of childhood play.

The patriarch plopped a whole fish onto my plate. Its flesh was flaky and delicious.

"You had best eat as much as you can." said the patriarch in Saiyago. Unlike Jann-Run and Talarin, he did not hesitate and stumble between words. "In three days we drain the fields, and this is no easy task. Your hands are still soft and unblemished. Tomorrow, this will change."

"I have never worked before." I admitted.

"You will watch us, and you will learn," he assured me, passing me a bowl of stew. "I know that you have strength in you. I see that you are not afraid of what you do not understand. This is uncommon in a boy of your size. Very rare indeed."

"I am not so young." I said, mumbling through a mouthful of stew.

The patriarch grinned. " You have the appetite of an Urmonaxi man. If you eat enough stew, you will someday grow as tall as Talarin." Although I was happy to oblige, I barely reached Talarin's shoulder when I had achieved my full height. In this respect, I remained a son of the house of Vegeta, a living tribute to physical mediocrity.

"Are all of these people your descendants?" I asked.

The patriarch chuckled. "Nana, nana. What a strange thing to say! Jann-Run and Talarin are my sons, and those two small girls are my youngest daughters. Those men over there are my three brothers and their sons. " He motioned to a group at the opposite end of the table. " And that is one of my first cousins, and his wife, and his daughter who is not yet married. We all trace our lineage to the male ancestor who built this house, and the right to live on this land passes from father to son. A great many of us choose live in the cities now, to find better work, to earn more money, to go to the universities, but an Urmonaxi man can always return here, to this table, and be an honored guest."

"Am I part of the Urmonaxi clan now? " I asked, hopefully.

Rutabaga Vegeta had always been kept separate from the others, an undesired child who belonged nowhere and to no one in particular. Kilomela was hard-working, wise, and knew that he would always call the house on the hill his home. I wanted to bury Rutabaga beneath a lifetime of daydreams and fabrications. Kilomela would be so content as a member of this ancient brotherhood, he would forget that he was once called Rutabaga. I stared into my lap, terrified that the patriarch would deny me.

"A boy is not counted among his elders until he has shown his commitment to the other members of his patrilineage," said the patriarch. "Perhaps you are clever as a whole man, but you only look like half of one." He winked. " No boy can become a man until he has endured the ordeal of Oi."

"Oi?"

The patriarch pointed to his face. "Oi. When a boy is ten years old, or perhaps older, his face and hands are tattooed with the marks that identify him as a member of his clan. It is truly a painful experience, but a man must sacrifice part of his individuality to gain strength and wisdom. A single blade of straw may break in the wind, but a well-bound bundle will not tear so easily."

Secretly, I was grateful to my cousin, Vegeta, for having been such a cruel friend. I knew I could withstand any test of loyalty.

" The day before the Oi is the day a boy cuts his hair," he added. " A young man distinguishes himself by cutting away the symbol of his childhood."

When I arrived in Urmon, my hair was quite long, a dense thicket of ringlets that had been allowed to grow wild and matted according to the prevailing fashion. Saiyans believed that a man with long hair possessed strength and virility. The Saiyan noblemen had taken as much pride in their beards and mustaches as the women had their luxurious garments and jewels. The Korud-jin, greatly influenced by superstition, saw this same feature as a mark of childishness and impulsiveness. Both boys and girls were made to let their hair grow until they were ten. At this time, boys' hair was shorn and girls began to wear their hair in braids. For a long time, I did not understand the purpose of this odd tradition, but it was later explained by a friend who had once conducted a study on regional customs. In areas along the Dindala, certain river demons had been thought to gobble up young children. Hidden by tangled thickets of hair, Korud-jin children could not be distinguished from the offspring of their would-be abductors.

" I am already ten years old. " I lied. I was several months short of my tenth birthday.

" You are a little small to be ten." said the patriarch.

" I'll grow. I'll finish a whole pot of stew, and I'll grow." I insisted.

The patriarch smiled. " Very well, then." He turned to Jann-Run. "We shall cut his hair after the meal. I see no reason to delay. "

Later that night, I sat in the chair that Talarin had brought from Vegetasei , surrounded by all of the men in the house. I sat with my back pressed against the cushion, rigid with apprehension. Jann-Run tied my hair with a piece of string, and I heard the zing of a sharp blade slicing through the bundle of strands. My head suddenly felt light. When the rest of my hair had been cropped close to the head, I brushed the dark,curling snippets off of my clothing.

The men swept the hair into a cloth bag, careful to catch every strand that had fallen to the floor. Together, we dug a hole near the tree. At dusk, we buried my hair in the catacombs of its gnarled roots, among the rotting matter of old leaves and dried seed pods. We pounded on the earth until it was firm and packed again. We danced without music, the dull thumping of our bare feet keeping time with the ancient rhythm. Bom-pada. Bom. Bom-pada. Bom. I jumped and stomped until I had exhausted myself.

Because there were no spare rooms in the house, I was obliged to share a feather mattress with Talarin and two lanky young men named Tsi-Jann and Kalis-Peis. Tsi was the eldest son of the patriarch's youngest brother. Kalis was the second son of the second brother. For seven years, we would each claim our quarter of this bed, preferring to share uncomfortably than to allow one of the others to sleep on the floor. We lay head to foot, foot to head under a single quilt, embroidered with a wreath of reeds, ki'ki blossoms and black kilomela birds.

When I try to lull myself to sleep after a long day at the college, I remember the familiar chorus of their snoring, three motors whirring and grunting into the night.