Daughter Of The
Fifth Moon

Lynn Sholes

DAUGHTER OF THE FIFTH MOON

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Lynn Armistead McKee

 

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

 

Published by Stone Creek Books
Oakland Park, Florida

Originally published by Signet Books

Interior design by Joe Moore
Cover art by Joe Moore

 

DEDICATION

For Tatum Madison Oliver.
The circle of life goes on.

Notes from the Historical Record

Most everyone is aware of Christopher Columbus’s discovery of San Salvador, the New World, on October 12, 1492, but few know of his landfall on Haiti’s northern, coast on December 6, 1492.

There is great debate as to how many Taino inhabitants existed on the island of Hispaniola when Columbus arrived. Some early Spanish historians claim there were as many as 3,000,000 to 4,000,000, but that is regarded as a gross overestimate. The current thinking is in the neighborhood of 400,000.

Early Christmas morning in 1492, the Santa Maria went aground off what is now Cap Hatien. The bottom of the ship was so badly damaged that it had to be abandoned. The Pinta was lost, and the Nina could not accommodate all the sailors. With the help of the Taino, Columbus salvaged the timber from the Santa Maria and used it to build a small fort he named La Navidad. The sailors begged Columbus to stay, as they were certain that here they would find their fortunes in gold. Columbus chose thirty-nine to stay behind.

The Taino were recognized as a gentle people, described as happy, friendly, and highly organized. Each small kingdom was ruled by a leader called the cacique. When Columbus arrived, there were five known kingdoms in Hispaniola.

The Taino lived in circular buildings with poles as the supporting framework. These huts were covered in woven straw and palm leaves. The caciques’ housing was different. Their houses were larger, rectangular, and had porches. Furniture was limited to wooden stools, chairs, cradles, and couches. The people slept in hammocks woven from cotton or on mats made of banana leaves.

For the most part the women and men went naked except for short skirts and adornments, especially those made from shells. They wore some small, hammered gold ornaments and painted and tattooed their bodies.

Their diet consisted mostly of meat and fish as the source of protein. On the island there were only a few small animals to hunt. They did hunt ducks and birds, and turtles in the lakes and the ocean. They practiced an agricultural technique of raising their crops in a conuco, a large mound they packed with leaves to guard against soil erosion. Their primary crop was cassava or manioc.

There is a discrepancy amongst scholars as to how severely the Taino were terrorized by the Caribs. Some say the evidence is abundant that the Caribs were warlike cannibals who consistently raided the Taino, stole their women, killed the men, and fattened the young men to eat. So horrid was the Carib reputation that even the Europeans gave the Caribs a wide berth when traveling through that part of the world. Others protest the tales of the Caribs are exaggerated.

The Taino worshipped gods called zemis. The zemis had the power to control everything in the universe. The Taino carved stone figures to represent their gods, in the forms of toads, snakes, and other animals with distorted human faces.

The demise of the Taino on Hispaniola is credited to several factors. When Columbus returned to Hispaniola, he found the men he had left behind on the island had been killed. The sailors had raped and violated the Taino women and destroyed their property. Outraged by the sailors’ dreadful deeds, the kindly Taino finally rose up against them. The Spanish methodically hanged and otherwise murdered the caciques, burning the people and the villages.

By 1507, the Taino had shrunk to 60,000, and by 1531, the number was down to 600. Within 50 years of Columbus’s arrival all the Taino had died from Spanish attack, overwork as slaves in the gold mines, starvation, and disease.

The Hispaniola gold the Spanish sought so feverishly, and at such tragic cost of human life, was exhausted by 1530. Spain lost interest in Hispaniola and eventually moved on.

 

Chapter 1

Mixya’s onyx eyes flashed open. It wasn’t the wind or the cry of some nocturnal creature that awakened her. She knew those sounds of the island. Those were the sounds that lulled her to sleep, that kept her company through long nights. No, something else moved, stirred the air, even instinctively made her nostrils flare as if she were an animal that could detect another by scent. To her east she heard the surf, the dark blue waves with jewels of moonlight riding their crests crashing over the white sand. Mixya turned to her side and the skin on her neck prickled. Her sleeping hammock swayed. She sensed something…something threatening. Fear rippled through her, making her shudder. She tapped her husband’s shoulder. His lids rose, but not as wide as hers. The woman’s black eyes shone with fright in the moonlight that sliced through the thatch.

“Listen,” she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips before he could speak.

Obaec cocked his head and propped up on his elbows. He stared out the opening of their round hut, searching in the darkness for the source of his wife’s alarm. He saw nothing. Obaec comfortingly smoothed her hair against her head with a gentle hand. “There is nothing,” he said. “Did you have a bad dream?” The night would slip away soon, and with it would fade all the dark mysteries. When morning came, Mixya would be fine. Father sun would rise, and the small village would begin to stir with activity.

The woman shook her head. There was something out there. She was certain. “Carib?” Mixya whispered on a trembling breath. Her skin broke with cold sweat.

Obaec squeezed his wife’s hand to reassure her as he climbed out of the hammock. He would look about, convince her there was nothing to be afraid of, and then she would sleep again, her head tucked in the crook of his arm, his hand resting lovingly across her warm and full breast.

Obaec gazed at his sleeping daughter. She was their only child, despite years of effort to have other children. Nyna had been conceived immediately after the marriage and was delivered with no problem, but Mixya had not borne any other children.

Obaec would do anything for either of them. He knew Mixya and Nyna depended on him to protect and provide for them. Though he was certain Mixya had only been awakened by a bad dream, there was a thread of uncertainty seeping through his veins. He could not name what the feeling was that made his blood heat inside him. In his head he knew there was nothing to fear, but his gut felt something else. Obaec ducked through the opening of their hut, hiding the fear burning inside his belly. Carib. Just the word made his skin crawl. He knew the Carib too well, and there was good reason to fear them.

As a boy Obaec had survived a Carib attack, and the memory of it remained clear in his head. He conjured the vivid image of the Carib warriors ravaging his village. Horrifying even in appearance, with their black-stained eyes and eyebrows and flowing hair, the Caribs terrified Obaec’s people. The most contemptible thing he knew of the Caribs was they ate the flesh of men. They were known to take the young Taino women, keep them as slaves and concubines, allowing them no meat other than lizards, snakes, and rats. When a woman gave birth to an infant spawned by the men, the child was murdered and eaten: The Caribs raised no offspring except those by their own women.

Obaec had heard the Caribs believed there was nothing in the world as flavorful as the flesh of men—better than boys or women. They abducted Taino boys, cut off their manparts, and fattened them up to feast upon later. Obaec was certain if his mother had not made him climb a tree and hide during the Carib attack, he would have been castrated on the spot and one day his bones gnawed as were his father’s and older brother’s that very day.

Obaec’s stomach soured, and the contents rose in his throat as he recalled watching those despicable men butcher and roast human flesh, and then feast on it there on the beach before loading their ocean-going piraguas with the young women, men, and boys of his village before sailing off into the sea. Old men and old women lay strewn in blood about the village. The small bodies of female children and infants also lay murdered. The Caribs did not want them, as it would take too long for the little girls to become mature and satisfying to them. Obaec’s mother, too old to be considered for a captive, lay slain beneath the tree in which he roosted.

For days Obaec had stayed perched in the tree, even after other Taino survivors had begun the task of clearing the village of bodies and attempting to recover.

His uncle spotted him and called to him. At first Obaec refused to come down, but his uncle convinced him he needed to eat and to rest if he wanted to grow into a man. His uncle told him his mother would want to see him do that.

Obaec had felt the rage burning inside him. Why did the Taino have no weapons to fight off the enemy—weapons like the Caribs’—arrows with sharp tortoiseshell and jagged fish-bone points? Why did they not have bludgeons edged with slivers of shells and sharks’ teeth tipped with manioc poison? The Taino never used the poison. They took great care in extracting the toxin from the manioc so they could make delicious cassava cakes. How different the Taino were from the Carib.

Slowly, Obaec descended the tree, all the while vowing he would fashion a weapon, one that was sharp and deadly, and if the Caribs ever came back, it would be their flesh that would run blood. He would dismember them and throw them in a stew pot and make the surviving enemy men swallow the meat of their brothers.

Obaec thought of that weapon now as he stared into the darkness. He glanced at the back of his hut where he hid the shell knife in a basket. Only Mixya knew of it, as war was not the Taino way, and the men would disapprove. He had shown his wife the knife on their wedding night, puffing out his chest as he told her how he would defend her with his life if he needed to.

Obaec looked at Mixya. If he retrieved the knife now it would cause her alarm and demonstrate his fear. He did not want to act too hastily. After all, he had heard nothing, no sounds at all other than those of the forest and sea. It was probably nothing. He would investigate.

Obaec stepped out of the hut and looked around, and then disappeared in the darkness.

This was the hot season, the season of great storms, yet Mixya suddenly felt as if cold water ran down her spine and limbs. She gathered her arms around herself, rubbing the peculiar chill from her upper arms. There was little saliva in her mouth, yet the urge to swallow was compelling. In her mind she tried to identify the dull sound that had awakened her, but she was not successful. And why, she wondered, had she immediately thought of the Caribs? She had never even seen one of them. She had only heard the stories, the dreadful tales of their bestial ways.

Suddenly she was sorry she had awakened her husband. He would find her foolish. She wished for the sun to come up and wash away her fears with its light. She prayed for daylight and the resumption of routine chores. It was time for manioc planting and there were baskets to be made—

Suddenly the village gushed with noise. War whoops filled the air, a sound Mixya had never heard before. Nyna sat up, startled. Mixya grabbed her from the hammock and carried her on her hip. “Shh,” she said, pulling her daughter close.

Shocked awake by the Carib attack, the Taino men scrambled to desperately defend themselves and their families. The wind carried their shouts.

Mixya stiffened. If they stayed in the hut, they would certainly be found and killed. Mixya crawled to the rear of the hut and fluttered her hand inside the basket. She felt the blade of the sharp knife and grasped it.

Listening to her heart pound in her chest, she held Nyna, crept out the door, and ran into the forest. Darker here, with the moonlight obscured by the thick canopy of trees, mother and daughter scrunched down in a brush thicket. They could still hear the cries and commotion in the village. Nyna put her hands over her ears and rocked. “Mother, Mother, Mother,” she whimpered.

A shadow lumbered through the forest, darting in and out of the diffuse light. The figure was difficult to track, appearing and disappearing in the trees.

Nyna’s whimpering grew louder, her eyes flickering with terror.

Mixya put her down, but kept an arm wrapped around her. “Quiet, little one. Quiet.” She knew the Caribs were going to find them. Her hands shook as she thought of the savages and how they would kill her beloved daughter.

The silhouette appeared closer, and she could feel the vibration of the earth as his feet pounded the ground. The brush rattled. He was here.

With a sudden rush of courage, Mixya sprang to her feet and ran at the figure. She held the knife firmly in her hand. She lunged at the man and plunged the knife into him. She aimed at his throat, but at the last moment the man lurched to the side, and she wounded him in the shoulder.

Her victim grunted in pain and reeled backward, clutching the knife protruding from his shoulder. He stopped, breathed a ragged breath, and staggered toward her.

“Oh, no!” Mixya cried.

Nyna screamed. 

Chapter 2

“Obaec!” Mixya’s hands flew to her mouth. She had stabbed her husband.

“No,” she wailed.

“You and Nyna have to get away,” he said, blood spilling through his fingers. “Before the sun rises. Follow me,” he said.

“I am so sorry,” she said, embracing him. “I thought you were a Carib.” Blood smeared across her cheek as she pressed her head on his chest.

Nyna wrapped her arms around the legs of her parents and cried softly. Obaec touched the top of her head comfortingly.

“There is no time,” he said. “They will kill you both. Come.”

Obaec led them around the village and down the beach, stumbling now and again as he grew weaker. He tripped over a piece of driftwood and fell onto the sand, staining the white beach a deep scarlet. Nyna covered her mouth to silence her cries as her mother helped Obaec to his feet.

“There,” he said, pointing to the flotilla of Carib piraguas. The Taino canoes were beached in full view of the village. They would be spotted easily if they risked taking a piragua of their own. A Carib dugout was the only choice. “Hurry,” he said.

When they reached the large canoes, Obaec directed his wife to get in one. He lifted Nyna and put her in the piragua, and then turned to Mixya. The woman saw something in her husband’s face. She saw the pain from his wound cloud his eyes, but she witnessed something else even more disturbing.

“You are not going with us, are you?” she asked. Her blood turned cold as it ran through her veins.

“Get in, woman.”

“We will all go,” Mixya said, “or none of us will go. We will stay and hide in the forest together.”

Obaec swayed with dizziness. Blood slicked the right side of his body. “No,” he said. “We would be found.”

Mixya put her hand over the bleeding hole in his shoulder. “I have done this to you, husband. I will take care of you, heal you, love you.”

Obaec pushed her away. “You are wasting time. Get in.”

She stared into her husband’s eyes. “Then you will go with us.”

Obaec looked down at his wound. “I cannot. I would be a burden. You must go with Nyna to take care of her. Our daughter needs you.”

Mixya reluctantly got in the canoe.

Suddenly she arched her back and grunted. Mixya twisted back to look at her husband and fell forward, her chest thumping on the side of the dugout. A long shaft stuck out of her back.

“Mother!” Nyna screamed.

Obaec looked behind them. The moonlight shone on a single Carib kicking up sand as he ran down the beach toward them. Mixya lay still. With a swift yank Obaec pulled the Carib lance from her back. Carefully he turned her and held her head up. Her eyes stared aimlessly … no focus … no spirit. She was gone.

Obaec shoved the piragua into the water, groaning with the pain. He heaved again, and the canoe slid without a ripple into the surf. “Lay flat in the bottom,” he told Nyna, pushing the dugout deeper. He was winded, and the pain and bleeding quickly sapped his strength. His voice rattled like dead palms.

Nyna’s only chance of survival was to have the piragua catch a current that would carry her to another Taino island. Even if she made it to an uninhabited island, she would at least have a chance at survival. Here she would surely perish at the torturous hands of the Carib. The evil ones only let the young women live, not the older ones, nor the children. They killed everyone except the boys they would fatten up and the young women they took away with them to serve as slaves and concubines. Obaec’s whole family was doomed to die at the foul hands of the savages. He prayed he could save his young daughter.

Water above his waist now, he pulled Mixya’s body from the piragua. It splashed into the sea.

“They will not have you, too,” he said to Nyna.

Nyna sobbed, the sound blending with the pounding of the surf.

The Carib reached the water. Obaec could not permit him to get to Nyna.

Images of the Carib attack so long ago skidded across his mind, the horror of it all.

“Father!” Nyna wailed as he let go of the canoe.

“Take the paddle,” he yelled. “You have seen me do it. Take the paddle!”

She was so young, so small, he thought. He wasn’t even sure she could use the paddle. With the last of his strength, Obaec pulled himself proudly erect and ran at the Carib. Hot, shooting pain ripped through his wounded shoulder as he thrust both arms toward the sky.

“Here I am!” he shouted. “Come for me!”

Nyna shrunk into the bottom of the boat, but kept her head just high enough so her eyes peered over the rim of the dugout. Tears distorting her vision, she watched her brave father buckle under the blow of a Carib war club. He sank in the shallow moonlit water, and Nyna’s mouth opened and let out a cry. Her chest crushed with fear and anguish. Then Obaec slowly rose from the sea, water sliding in sheets off his body. The Carib struck again. Obaec warded off the blow with his right forearm. But the Carib was strong and full of feral energy. He came at her father once more, swinging wildly, powerfully, striking the side of Obaec’s head. Again he slumped into the sea.

“Father!” Nyna screamed. “Get up! No! No!”

She waited for him to rise out of the surf as he did before, but as the dugout rocked in the sea, Nyna finally realized her father was not going to stand again. He was with her mother, silent, still, beneath the blue water. Nyna looked at the long wooden paddle. She didn’t want to touch it, put her hands where their sweaty hands had been.

She called out for her father and mother, crying at the sky. She heard the shrieks of the Carib as he came for her, trudging through the water.

Finally she picked up the paddle. It was heavy and awkward. She lowered the wide end into the sea and pushed the water with the paddle, as hard and fast as she could. The piragua moved more swiftly, riding the waves, until finally the Carib and the shore vanished in darkness.

It was not long before her arms ached and she felt sick, as though she might vomit. She lost her grip on the paddle, and it slipped silently into the ocean. She reached over the edge, stretching for it. Her fingertips barely touched the tip of the paddle. Instead of drawing the paddle to her, her touch edged the paddle farther away. She watched as it drifted farther and farther. Nyna lay down and shriveled into a ball in the bottom of the canoe. She put her hands over her head and cried. She cried from sorrow and heartache, and she cried from desperation and fear. Her face was wet with tears and her nose ran. Even though she knew her mother was dead and couldn’t hear her, Nyna cried for her. Mother always made things better, took the hurts away, and stilled her fears. She wanted her now, wanted her mother’s soft voice to assure her everything would be all right. Nyna wanted to feel Mother’s hand stroke her hair. She lay there, shaking and whimpering, afraid to lift her head to see if the Carib was swimming after her. At this moment he could be only an arm’s length from the piragua, his evil black eyes glowing with wild excitement. He would latch on to the side of the canoe, turn it over, and spill her into the ocean. Then he would dive for her and slash her with his knife before returning to the shore. She would be food for the sharks. Perhaps close by there was even a large dugout filled with the savages, all of them with wicked eyes!

She cried until too exhausted to continue. Sleep came to her just before dawn. She didn’t dream.

When the sun lapped its hot tongue across her back, Nyna awakened. She was gritty and sticky from the sea’s salt and the tears that had dried on her skin. Cautiously she reared her head, and the wind took her hair, whisking it gently off her shoulders. All about her was blue sea, darker than she had ever seen the water before, almost black. Nyna looked in all directions, but there was no land, no sandy beach or trees. She was alone.

When the sun was high above her, Nyna’s throat grew dry. Her stomach grumbled, and she wished she had some cassava bread to nibble on.

Later in the day, the sun straight ahead of her, Nyna propped her head on the side of the piragua. She wanted to go home. Her eyes stung as if ready to fill with tears. She sniffed and swiped her nose with the back of her hand. She missed her mother and father. She was hungry and thirsty, and so alone. 

Chapter 3

The sun kept at Nyna, searing her with its scalding sheets of heat. Her lips fissured and stung with the dusting of salt. Her eyes burned.

So thirsty, so terribly thirsty.

Nyna crawled onto her knees. How long had she been floating in this terrible canoe? She recalled at least three days, but after that her memory was hazy. She wanted to go home. She whimpered.

The water sparkled with the blinding sun. Nyna stared, thinking she could see the reflection of her father’s face. She cupped her hands and dipped them in the beautiful blue water. The piragua rocked, threatening to tip. Nyna held her breath until the dugout settled. Again she made a bowl with her hands, and then slowly lifted the water to her lips. Most of the water drained between her fingers, but there was enough to wet her mouth.

More. So thirsty.

The seawater burned her lips and throat, but for an instant it satisfied the powerful thirst. Her stomach did not fare as well, and she retched. Her mother had always told her not to drink the seawater. Was it poison? She had never questioned why. It didn’t taste good.

Nyna folded herself back into the bottom of the dugout. A thin veil of white salt coated her golden brown body and dulled her thick black hair. She wanted to cry, but didn’t have the strength.

By dusk, she wasn’t sure if another day had passed or not. Was the twilight dawn or sundown? She had slept on and off, sometimes waking and thinking she was home, and then jerking awake when she remembered the truth.

The canoe suddenly bucked. Except for the gentle rocking, movement ceased. The canoe was grounded. Nyna lifted her head. Dizziness swept over her, and her torso swayed as she rose up on her knees.

White beach stretched as far as she could see, beautiful trailing flowers, tall dune reeds, and thickets of brush, green trees. Nyna blinked, thinking the image would disappear. When it didn’t, she opened her mouth to call out, but then pressed her lips together, sealing out any sound she might have made. This was not home.

Carib? she wondered, sinking lower in the piragua. The dugout rocked with the waves. She had to hide. Nyna pulled herself up. Her arms felt heavy and her legs light, knees unable to withstand her own weight. Her small muscles trembled as she got to her feet and struggled out of the canoe. The cool water washed across her calves. Nyna made her way to the beach, twice falling with weakness before stepping on dry land.

The sand was still warm from the afternoon sun, and it stuck to her sweaty body. She heard herself grunting and crying as her little feet struggled to move her over the dune into the thick brush.

She cried softly for her mother, her face scrunching from the muscle pain and exertion.

Finally over the sandy hill, Nyna crawled into the dense brush. Her small chest heaved for breath. A drizzle of rain began as she coiled into a ball. The wind picked up, and she shuddered with a chill. Her shoulders shook with her crying.

“Take me,” she whispered. If she died she could be with her mother and father … safe.

Heavier rain fell, soaking her, washing the salt away. She opened her mouth.

 

At the change of the tide, as quietly as it had arrived, the Carib piragua drifted away on the current.

Even during the periods of rain, Nyna slept through the night. She didn’t wake until the early sunlight struck her face. She partially opened one eye. Towering puffs of white clouds floated in the bright blue sky. Nyna tucked her arms and legs even closer to her body. The hunger was gone, but the thirst remained. Her mother would have brought her water to remedy her parched throat. What would she do with no mother and no father?

“Mother,” she whispered, her voice scratching her throat. A soft wind rustled the brush. Mother’s breath.

Slowly, Nyna drifted into part sleep, part dream.

 

Joog crawled out of his hut, careful not to wake his mother. It was early enough, he thought.

The boy stretched in the pale yellow light of the sunrise. If he hurried, he might collect some conchs in the shallow water and bring them back to his mother. She would be pleased. He would provide well for her, even if he was young.

He thought of the lines that channeled the skin about his mother’s eyes. She still missed his father. Her hair had grown long again, but her heart still ached. It was the custom to cut the hair short as a symbol of grief when a loved one died. Nihapu had taken her husband’s knife and sawed through her hair when she learned of his death. Now her hair was long again, and the grieving period should have ended. It had not.

Joog breathed in a lungful of the morning air. He would greet the day later when he returned with the conch. He picked up a basket and trotted through the village, through the palmetto-rich scrub pine forest and onto the beach.

Ankle-deep in water, Joog traveled up the shoreline. He found three conchs right away and put them in the basket. The sun was getting higher. Maybe it was not as early as he thought. He’d take a shortcut through the woods to get back. His brown calves tightened as he walked through the sand and up the dune.

Surprised by movement caught from the corner of his eye, Joog dropped to a crouch. A raccoon waddled through the brush. Ah, if I only had my bola, he thought.

He put down the basket and went to all fours. This was a good time to practice hunting, he thought. Quietly, lightly touching each hand and knee to the ground before applying weight, he crept closer to the raccoon. How close could he get? he wondered.

The raccoon stopped and looked behind him. Joog froze, not even blinking. He thought about his breathing, concentrating on slow, shallow breaths that did not flare his nostrils, nor cause his chest to move much.

The raccoon sniffed the air and looked around, but did not appear to see him. Joog’s heart beat faster with the small victory. Then the raccoon was on the move again.

The boy slowly lifted his right hand from the ground, continuing to stalk the animal. A noise distracted him. It came from his left, and he cocked his head in that direction. But he didn’t want to lose the raccoon. He was sure he could get very, very close. It was a game … one his grandfather, the cacique, had taught him. “Be one with the soil, the air, the trees,” he had told Joog. “A good hunter can get almost close enough to capture the prey with his hands. Be close enough that the kill is clean. A good hunter does not wound an animal so it gets away and suffers until its death. Man owes the animal for giving up his flesh.”

Joog’s grandfather, Chogatis, took him to the woods and taught him what the words meant. He showed Joog the way to communicate with the spirits of the trees, the stones, the earth. He showed him how to be one with all those things. No wonder Chogatis was the cacique, the chief. He seemed to know everything.

His grandfather told him a good hunter practices all the time, perfecting his skills. So, here was an opportunity to practice, Joog thought. How very close he was to the raccoon already. Would not his mother and Chogatis be surprised if along with the conch he brought home a raccoon he had caught with his bare hands?

He looked back toward the animal. But then there was that noise again. A worthy hunter should be curious and careful, also, he thought. The sound he heard was like a soft cry. Perhaps there was a hurt animal hiding in the clump of brush. Or suppose it was a warrior, an enemy? He was obligated to investigate.

Joog continued on his hands and knees, silently approaching the thicket. Before pushing away any of the undergrowth, he stopped and waited, listening, using all his senses. There were no more sounds, no smells to help him determine what was hiding.

Cautiously he took his right hand and pulled down some grasses. As the grass bent, some of the wiry blades split open. The scent was the same as if he had walked upon the grass, crushing it. He noted the sweet aroma.

Joog gazed through the tangle of scrub. His breath seized up in his chest. He squinted and changed his angle. Like a rush of cold water streaming through his body, his arms tingled. There, nestled in the brush was a child, a girl. She wore a kind of short apron suspended from a belt about her hips. It was not made from a hide or any plant he knew. On one arm was a bracelet made of a most remarkable substance. He had never seen anything like it before. The color was of the sun and when the light hit it, the brilliance flashed back in his eyes.

Joog inspected the girl. Definitely younger than he. Her hair was long and as black as the night sky when it rained, though it was tangled and full of snarls. Entwined in the mat of hair were several feathers. Though worn and frayed, they were of incredible colors. Brilliant green, yellow, and scarlet. What bird could this have come from? He noticed another peculiar feature. Her forehead was strangely shaped, somehow flattened. So odd. Where had she come from? She was not Ais, not from this clan, nor any other Ais clan. Nor was she like any other people he had ever seen or heard of, and he knew of many peoples. She was not Jeaga, not Tequesta, Jororo, Mayaca, Tocobaga, Calusa, nor any of the other people who lived in the region. Had she fallen from the sky, maybe even from the sun itself? The bracelet drew his eyes back once again. Perhaps it was even made of the sun.

She lay still, and her eyelids, with their long dark lashes, were closed. The girl breathed out a sigh. Ah, that was the noise he had heard. He had to hurry back to the village and tell his grandfather. Chogatis would know what to do.

Quickly, Joog grabbed the basket of conch, and then ran home full speed.

“Grandfather,” he called, entering the village. The people were just beginning to stir. The sweet smell of berry cakes wafted through the village, carried on cook fire smoke. He was surely waking those who still slept. “Grandfather!”

Chogatis sat in front of his shelter, which was larger than other dwellings in the village. His legs were crossed, his back straight, his chin tilted so slightly upward. His eyes were closed. Chogatis greeted the day.

Joog dashed across the main plaza, nearly losing his footing in the sudden stop before his grandfather.

Chogatis opened his eyes and stared at the boy. “One does not disturb another when he is greeting the day.”

“Sorry, Grandfather,” Joog said, breathless from the run. He attempted to control his panting, but still spoke on short breaths. “I have found something.”

Chogatis peered in the basket. “Conch? Why do they excite you?”

Joog shook his head, his dark hair whipping across his shoulders. “No, no, no. Not conch.”

“Catch your breath, boy. In through the nose.” Chogatis demonstrated, breathing in deeply. He exhaled through his mouth, blowing through pursed lips. “Out through the mouth.”

Joog imitated his grandfather.

“Now, sit and tell me what has you so excited.”

Joog lowered himself to the ground. He glanced about to see if anyone was watching. He already knew he had attracted attention, and now he thought better of it. Chogatis might prefer this to be a secret. He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. “I went for conch for Mother this morning … very early. On my return I found something. A girl.”

“What do you mean? Who has a lost child?”

“No, she is not one of us. She is not Ais.”

“You found a girl, a child, and she is not Ais?”

Joog nodded vigorously. “Yes, she was sleeping in a thick clump of brush. Hiding there. I think she comes from the sun.”

Chogatis arched his brows. “A girl from the sun. How interesting.” The grandfather held back a smile, but Joog still saw the skepticism in Chogatis’s eyes.

“You can see her for yourself,” he said. “Her forehead is unusual.” Joog ran his hand from his eyebrows to the top of his head trying to illustrate the shape. “And, Grandfather, she wears this most incredible bracelet on her arm. It is made from something the color of the sun, and shines just as brightly. And there are feathers from birds I have never seen.” Joog sprang to his feet. “Come see. I will show you.”

Chogatis stood. “Get your mother,” he said. “If this girl is hurt or ill, she will need a woman who is a healer.”

Joog grabbed the basket and sprinted through the village. Nihapu sat by her small fire, fanning the coals. The air was damp, and the fire did not want to cooperate.

“Where have you been?” she asked, aggravation tinting her voice.

“Look,” he said, handing her the basket. “I wanted to surprise you this morning. I will always provide for you.”

“You make me age with worry. I wake and my son is not anywhere.”

“I would have been back earlier,” he said. “Mother, I was stalking a raccoon, and I found something. I told Grandfather, and he told me to get you.”

“What did you find?” Nihapu asked.

“You have to go with us,” Joog said. “I found a girl … an incredible girl.”

Nihapu rose. Her son had passion for whatever he discovered or did. If he fashioned a tool, he did nothing except concentrate on that task for days. Then he would make more, modifying them, finding more excitement in each one. Then several moon phases later, he would be on to something else with equal intensity. The child was filled with so much zest and fire. His genuine enthusiasm and the thrill he found in simple things always charmed the elders. She looked at her boy’s face, and her heart filled with love.

“Where? What kind of girl?”

“By the beach,” he said, turning away, anxious for her to follow. “You will see,” he said. “I will take you and Chogatis to see her. Hurry.”

 

Chogatis and Nihapu followed the boy down the shore. He stopped twice, searching the beach, appearing unsure of his location. Finally he pointed to the spot where he believed the girl to be.

“There,” he whispered. “Follow me. Be very quiet.”

Chogatis nodded at Joog and then followed, Nihapu just behind.

Joog stopped short of the clump of brush. “In there.”

Chogatis stooped and tried to see through the vegetation.

“Get closer,” Joog whispered.

Chogatis went down on his hands and knees. He pushed aside a sheaf of grass and weed. There, just as Joog had said, was the small girl. He gazed at the bracelet. It did indeed shine with the color of the sun. He backed away.

Nihapu took a peek and covered her mouth with her hand in surprise.

“Where is she from?” Joog asked in a whisper.

Chogatis shook his head. “She is a strange one.”

“Did you see the bracelet and the feathers?” the boy asked.

Both Chogatis and Nihapu nodded.

“Remarkable,” Chogatis said.

“I think the child is ill,” Nihapu said. “And she appears burned from the sun. I will prepare some medicines.”

“No,” Chogatis said sharply. “Not yet. Let me consult Uxaam. The shaman may be able to determine who this girl is.”

“But look at her,” Nihapu said. “She needs help. She is frail and sick. She sleeps a sick sleep.” She took a step toward the thicket. “I will carry her back.”

Chogatis firmly laid a hand on her shoulder. “No, you will not.” 

Chapter 4

Joog hid behind the dune, peeking over the sandy hill to watch as Chogatis and Uxaam inspected his find. He wished he could see more clearly.

Uxaam crawled next to the peculiar, sleeping child. He looked at her, studying the shape of her head, the feathers, and especially the bracelet. There was nothing strange about the shape of her eyes. Her skin color and hair were also similar to the Ais’s. He held his outstretched hands over her, detecting the body heat. From this he hoped to gather a sense of her spirit. He moved his hands in unison, sweeping the length of her body. He closed his eyes and waited, expecting his senses to tell him something.

A few moments later he looked back at Chogatis and shrugged.

Chogatis urged him on.

Cautiously the shaman allowed one finger to touch her hair and then her cheek. The child moaned and fluttered her eyelids. Uxaam drew back and sat very still and quiet. She mumbled something, but the words were unintelligible. What kind of language was that? He had never heard it before.

When the girl settled back into sleep, the shaman touched the bracelet she wore. How extraordinarily beautiful. And those feathers, such magnificent colors.

Uxaam plucked a hair from her head, backed away, and stood up, beckoning Chogatis to take a look.

Chogatis stooped and gazed through the brush. When the cacique finished studying the girl again, he and Uxaam moved a short distance away.

“Do you think the ocean has spit her up onto the shore?” Chogatis asked.

“No. She is not from this world,” Uxaam said. “Chogatis, she wears such amazing ornaments. The bracelet. It is not true yellow as the ocher of the earth, but more like the blazing yellow that streaks the clouds at sunrise and sunset. It is like the sun itself.” Uxaam paused, then said, “She comes from there.” He pointed to the sky.

“Maybe she has fallen,” Chogatis said.

“I am perplexed,” the shaman said. “I have never seen someone with a head shaped like hers. Wherever she comes from, it is far, far away. I have an uneasy feeling about this.” Uxaam glanced back toward the clump of brush where the girl lay. “I could not feel her spirit. My instinct says let her be. I will call on the spirits for help.” He dangled the piece of the girl’s hair in front of the cacique. “Until we know more, leave her there. If she is cast out of the heavens, we should not interfere.”

“Nihapu is willing to take her. If she wakes and is lucid, we could learn more.”

“Not yet,” Uxaam said.

When Uxaam and Chogatis left, Joog ran over the dune and crept up on the sleeping girl. She was so small, he thought. What could be dangerous about this little child? The bracelet, the feathers, they were things of beauty. Maybe where she came from a head like hers was also considered beautiful.

The girl moved and moaned.

Joog watched her, fascinated. “Are you awake?” he asked. He would ask her where she was from and how she had gotten here. Why didn’t Chogatis and Uxaam do that? It seemed so simple.

“Can you hear me?” he asked. He reached to touch her, and then pulled back. If he touched her, would something happen to him? Was she a shapeshifter who might turn into a bear, a bear with a huge head and ferocious teeth and powerful claws? Did she have that kind of magic? he wondered. The brilliance of the bracelet made him blink.

Joog sat beside the girl, watching her sleep. The child captivated him. What if she were not cast out of the heavens, what if she had lost her way?

He recalled the time when his father was killed and the Jeaga captured him. He had been so afraid. Perhaps this girl needed just one friend, as he had.

Joog gently shook her shoulder.

Nothing happened to him. Her skin was slightly cool and damp, but pleasingly smooth. He leaned close and sniffed. She smelled of the rain and the sea.

The girl’s eyelids slowly opened. He could see she took a minute to focus. When she saw him, she whimpered, her mouth screwing up as if she were going to cry.

When he had been captured, he was strong and he had fought. He felt she might do the same if she had had the strength. But she was too weak, and too young. Yet, still, she had to feel the same kind of fear he had.

Joog smiled in an effort to reassure her. He cocked his head. “Who are you?”

The child coiled more tightly.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”

The girl put her hands over her face. Joog stroked the backs of her hands. “Do not be afraid, little one.”

Her skin was dry and burned. “Did you burn yourself living so close to the sun?” He stared at her cracked lips. She needed water.

“I will be back,” he said, scooting away. He ran to the village. In his shelter he grabbed a water pouch made from an otter’s stomach. Next he picked up a large whelk shell he could use as a drinking cup.

“What are you doing?” Nihapu asked, coming up behind him.

Joog flinched. “Water from the cenote—”

Nihapu looked at the shell dipper. “Why do you need that to get the water? You have the water pouch.”

Joog smelled the fish stew his mother brewed. “I was going to sneak a dip of the stew,” he said, letting a wide grin wash over his face. “You are the finest cook. It smells so good.”

“I would have fixed you a bowl, boy.”

“No, no. Go about your chores. Just a swallow will do.”

Joog brushed past her, stopped at the pot steeping over the fire. He dipped the shell in the stew, and then sipped it. “Delicious,” he said, putting down the ladle. Without giving his mother a chance to ask any more questions, he sprinted off.

After gathering water from the sinkhole, he went straight to the girl and crawled next to her.

“I am back,” he said, touching her arm just below the bracelet. “I have brought you some water.”

Nyna opened her eyes at his touch.

“Water,” Joog said. “You must be thirsty.”

He put some water on his fingers and touched them to her mouth, wetting her lips.

She cringed, the water burning the cracks in her lips. Joog drew his hand back, but she reached for it. The girl said something, but the language was different.

“More,” he said. “More water?”

The child’s black eyes stared at him. He didn’t see as much fear in them now.

“Here,” he said, lifting her head with one hand. “Pick up your head.” He let go and the child propped herself on an elbow. He brought the pouch near her mouth. This was going to be difficult without the cup.

“Open,” he said, but the girl didn’t respond. “Open your mouth and I will pour,” he said.

Joog waited a moment, and then opened his own mouth, held the pouch above it, and poured a thin stream of water into his mouth. “Now, you,” he said.

He pried his index finger in her mouth and pulled down on the lower jaw. “Leave it open,” he said, slowly withdrawing his finger and tilting her chin up. Without any sudden moves that could frighten her, he lifted the pouch and slowly dribbled water into her mouth.

The girl eagerly swallowed, and when Joog started to upright the pouch, her hand was suddenly over his, encouraging him to give her more water.

“I was right,” he said. “You are thirsty.”

When she was done drinking, she flopped down, short of breath.

“Your journey must have been long,” Joog said.

The girl’s eyes closed. She coughed weakly several times, and then drifted into sleep.

Joog sat at her side, staring at her. Who was this wonder child? He glanced at the sun, and then back at her. “Sun child,” he said. “Is that your name?”

 

Night fell over the village in a sudden heavy curtain of blackness. Storm clouds rushed over the setting sun, later obliterating the stars and moon. Thunder convulsed the thatch roofs, and the ground quaked. Uxaam sat cross-legged in the center of a raised, open-sided platform. He stirred a small fire with a stick and watched the smoke funnel up to the roof. This was a ceremonial place, a place the shaman talked to the spirits. A sacred place.

Tonight he was troubled. The girl child, the one who carried a piece of the sun, could appear to be something she was not. She could be a witch, one who could steal the soul and power of another’s life and add what she stole to her own power. Witches fed on the weak and feeble. They could change into any person or animal living on the ground. And if they were especially powerful, they could take on the shapes and flight of birds. The feathers, he thought.

Lightning fractured the sky, and the rain pounded harder. The wind thrashed, stripping leaves from the trees, twisting off whole branches, blowing the rain through the platform, pelting the shaman’s naked back.

The floor of the platform reverberated like drumbeats beneath the spirit man’s haunches. He chanted, calling out even above the howl of the wind and the beat of rain. His words were those of the ancient forgotten tongue, the language of the shaman, the voice of the spirits. His chant rang with a mystical rhythm, a fluency bordering on melody. He complemented his chant with the counter rhythm of his turtle-shell rattle.

The cup of water before him seethed with aromas of magical plants and herbs. Taken from the fire just before the rain, the potion still steamed. He held the strange girl’s piece of hair over the bowl, and then let it drop into the mixture. Uxaam gathered his own hair to the back of his neck, twisted it into a cord, and used two curved bone pins to hold it there.

The rain-chilled air made the shaman shiver. Uxaam loosened the drawstring of the pouch he wore at his waist. He pulled out several smaller packets, and then decided on one. He untied the cordage that bound the rolled leaf into a neat pack. Inside was a small amount of pulverized plant parts. He pinched up a bit, and put it under his tongue. Uxaam’s chant muted to a mere hum.

He turned to the damp fire burning inside his shelter. He waved his rattle over it and spoke softly, leaning in to the fire so it could hear his voice. The coals erupted into small flames.

Uxaam straightened and threw a fistful of green pine needles onto the flames. The fire hissed. Thick smoke rose.

He lifted the bowl with the potion in both hands, cradling the container beneath his nose. He sniffed, breathing in deeply. It was good. He raised the bowl over the fire and chanted, the words strong, riding the storm wind.

“Hay-ya, hay-ya. Ho. Hay-ya, hay-ya. Ho.”

He followed the bowl with his eyes as he brought it to his lips and sipped. As he swallowed, he felt the liquid glide down his throat and land in his fasting belly. Again he put his mouth to the bowl and this time took a larger drink. Enough.

The shaman’s head dropped, and then slowly, as if struggling, he raised it up. Flashes of light and color danced before his eyes. Here, in the spirit realm, the world was distorted, as if he watched through a lens of gently moving water. Sounds were louder, echoing like the warped visual perception that rippled in front of him. But even through this distorted illusion, a man of the spirits could see other things more clearly. Though physical images were convoluted and became more obscure, the intangible things became more distinct. The shaman could detect fear, anger, love, most powerful emotions. He could sense truth and deception. And in this state, if the spirits chose to, they could evoke visions.

A swirling white mist clouded his eyes for a moment. When it lifted, blowing away like smoke in the wind, the shaman was far away. Ghostly, deep-toned cries echoed in his ears. Rich crimson blood trickled through white sand, forming a web of fine thready streams. A woman sank into the water, her blood seeping out, oozing into a surrounding circle that dyed the water red. And in the distance there rose peaks of earth unlike anything he had ever seen. What place could this be?

Uxaam’s attention turned to a dark silhouette. A man, he thought, running down the beach, stumbling and shouting words Uxaam could not make out.

Then suddenly, the smell of deep sea spiraled up his nostrils. He rocked with waves. His focus blurred and faded, the haze and mist vanished, and the shaman’s vision ended.

 

Early, just after greeting the day, Chogatis called upon Joog. “Come with me, Grandson,” he said.

Joog put down his bowl and jumped to his feet. He loved outings with his grandfather. Chogatis showed him the ways, the secrets that made a man a good hunter, a good warrior. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Follow me,” Chogatis said

Cetisa, Nihapu’s sister, stood in front of her hut. “You spend a lot of time with that boy,” she called out. “Seems a cacique’s time could be better spent.”

“Wipe your chin, woman,” Chogatis said.

Cetisa looked confused, but touched her chin with her finger.

“I thought I saw rattlesnake venom dribble from your mouth as you spoke,” Chogatis said.

Cetisa turned on her heel and disappeared inside.

“Why is she so hateful?” Joog asked. “Sometimes my mother cries over the things she says to her.”

“She is a disgruntled woman. Your mother has the healing gift and Cetisa does not. And Nihapu has you. The spirits have not seen fit to give Cetisa a child.”

“Because she is too mean,” Joog said, laughing. The boy walked backward in front of Chogatis. “What lesson do you teach me today?”

“Patience,” Chogatis said.

By the shallow stream, Chogatis sat. “Sit as I do.”

Joog crossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap.

“There is a special place an Ais man can go if he has the patience to travel far. In this place there is oneness with the rest of the earth. A man can become one with nature.”

“How far is it?” Joog asked.

“Patience, boy. Patience. Pick up a stone and hold it in your hand.” Joog picked up a rock and Chogatis did the same. “Take your time and explore it. Feel it with your hands, smell it, taste it. Listen to what it says.”

Joog fondled the rock.

“Let the stone speak to you.”

Joog sniffed the rock, and then put his tongue on it. He held it to his ear and looked at Chogatis.

“Do not hurry it,” Chogatis said, “or you will not hear the stone when it speaks.”

Chogatis rolled his rock over in his hands, concentrating. Joog copied his grandfather.

After a while, Chogatis put down his rock. “The place I spoke of is not a place I can take you. You must go yourself.”

“How will I find it?”

Chogatis swept his hand in front of his face. “You cannot see them, but there are curtains you must pass through. To reach this place of oneness you must pass through four curtains. These are very special passageways, each one taking you closer and farther than the one before.”

Joog’s eyes widened and filled with wonder.

“You live now in the world of the first curtain. Your vision of things is limited here, distracted by movement and conversation, activity. You must find your way from this world and pass through the second curtain. There you will be relaxed and at peace.”

“Then will I be there?” Joog asked.

Chogatis smiled. “Oh, no. Remember, patience. You must pass through all four curtains before you enter the place where there is no separation between yourself and everything else.”

Chogatis stared straight ahead, his long dark hair catching the soft breeze that swept it to his back. “A good hunter must find his way through those curtains. Then he can see and hear, smell every raccoon, deer, rabbit, lizard that moves through the forest. He can sit in the middle of the forest and blend with everything around him, even have creatures of all kinds come to him and sit beside him. Those who cannot pass through the curtains are discontent, moving through the woods, seeing nothing. They jump from one thought to the next, never able to concentrate on their surroundings. They are poor hunters.”

“I want to be a good hunter. How?”

“First you must learn to pass through the second curtain. Close your eyes,” Chogatis said.

The man and the boy closed their eyes.

“Take four deep breaths,” the grandfather said. “One from each of the directions. Through your nose, out your mouth.”

Joog did as he was told.

“Tense your feet,” Chogatis said. “Make all the muscles in your feet hard. Squeeze. Let go. Do that again, squeeze harder this time.”

Joog tensed his feet so much that he grimaced.

“Let go. Deep breath. Breathe out. Now tense your calf muscles. Hold them tight. Let go. Breathe.”

Chogatis led the boy up through all the parts of his body, ending with his scalp.

“This time tense your whole body. Make it as hard as the stone you held.”

Joog tightened all his muscles, holding his breath. Finally Chogatis said, “Release.”

Joog blew out his pent-up breath.

“Let yourself sink into the earth. Feel there is no beginning or ending of you. Relax and melt into your surroundings. Hear even the wind stirred by a butterfly’s wings. Experience all the sensations around you. If any thoughts come into your head, acknowledge them and then let them go.”

The two sat quietly for a few moments. At last Chogatis told Joog to open his eyes. “Practice often. When you get very good at passing through this second curtain, you will be able to do it with your eyes open, even when you are doing other things.”

Chogatis stood.

“Wait,” Joog said. “What about the other curtains, the place of oneness?”

“Patience. The day you took your first step you did not go right on to running.”

Joog nodded that he understood. Patience was a difficult thing. He had wanted to check on the sun child when he first awakened, but knew he could not just run off so quickly. Patience. Patience. He would check on the girl after they returned to the village.