Outlaw. Part 21

By the time night had fallen, even that thin thread of hope had darkened. I lay alone in my hut long after silence had swallowed the village, and slowly settled into what can only be described as a living death.

Sleep.

And in that sleep, the dream that had first lured me from distant sh.o.r.es visited me once again, for the first time since I had left Atlanta.

Once again I was looking down at a large valley filled with a tangle of trees, with vines the size of my forearms running all the way to the ground. Flocks of red-and-blue parrots took flight and flapped over an endless swamp at the valley's far end. The landscape was both savage and idyllic at once.

Once again a single sweet tone reached out to me, wooing me with its unbroken, haunting note. I looked around, wondering where the song could be coming from, but I could see no one. The singular, evocative tone grew in volume, and birds from all corners of the jungle took flight toward the sound, far before me.

And then I too took flight, sailing above the trees, up the valley. A low tone joined the higher one then, a deeper note that seemed to reach into my bones. I wasn't afraid-on the contrary, I found the sound exceedingly comforting. It seemed to wrap itself around my whole body and pull me forward.

Once again in that dream I was rushing, faster and faster, headed directly for a barren hill. It was there on that hill that I saw the figure who had so often stood there, calling to me. A nameless one. An exotic creature from another world, calling out to me in a voice that was deeply comforting.

Come to me, it sang without words. Find me. Join me. Save me...

And once again, before I could see the singer's face, the dream faded, leaving me to darkness.

I awoke with eyes wide open.

The morning had come, and with it a deep stillness. Still gripped by my memory of the dream, I wondered if I might still be sleeping.

And then the events that had delivered me into that hut deep in the jungle crashed into my mind. Wilam. Kirutu. Betrayal.

Death.

The reality of it all crushed any lingering memory of the dream.

I jerked upright from my mat and listened for any sound. But there was none. They had gone?

My heart hammered as I lurched toward the door, quickly removed the slats, and stepped into the sunlight for the first time in three days.

Distant birds called. Smoke coiled to the sky from several huts, and if I'd used my imagination I might have heard the sound of crackling fire. Otherwise the village was silent.

Empty. I was alone?

I hurried along the upper boardwalk, looking for anyone. But there was no one to be seen. Not even the elderly loitering near the doorways to their huts.

"Melino?"

My call was hollow.

I began to run along the boardwalk. I needed someone to shatter the illusion that I had been abandoned.

But there was no one. So I ran faster, calling out Melino's name, oblivious to the pain in my abdomen, all the way to the far end of the upper courts, which overlooked the ma.s.sive clearing with the lone tree at its center.

I pulled up by the railing there and stared out at the sight that greeted my eyes.

The women, children, and elderly had gathered at the north end, near the trees, looking south. A sea of black men, Impirum all, filled the gra.s.sy slopes-thousands of warriors bearing spears and bows and axes, dressed in red bands and blackened pig grease that glistened in the dawn light.

The sight took my breath away. There were no guns or horses or tanks, only flesh and blood and bone. But the raw power and savagery ama.s.sed on that gra.s.s struck me as more threatening by far, for what are metal and bullets compared to feral muscle and sinew and honor and rage?

Wilam stood facing his army, dark and strapping, bands of red and blue and yellow on his biceps, thighs, and head. Stripped down for war, strapped with taut muscles.

My heart surged at the sight of him. My warrior, who had saved me and loved me.

My husband, who would kill my son and betray me for a throne.

It was their way.

Wilam thrust his spear into the air and cried for the heavens to hear. "The enemy of my seed must pay with blood! For law, for honor, for glory, we war!"

Then he turned and loped into the jungle.

The ma.s.sive sea of dark bodies moved as one behind him, surging forward with a roar that rattled the leaves. I could feel their pounding feet in the soles of my own as they swept into the jungle, close on Wilam's heels.

In a matter of moments the field emptied of warriors, like a huge bowl spilling its wrath into the jungle, leaving only a vacuous silence to keep the women, children, and elderly company.

Would Wilam have gone if he'd known I was worthless?

I, the violated one with a b.a.s.t.a.r.d son-an outcast without value-had sent them to their deaths with my lie.

A deep and terrifying panic swarmed me. The die was cast. Kirutu would engage them with his dark ones. Michael had warned me that a struggle for power would rip the valley apart. I had never imagined how central my role would be. Truly I was only a p.a.w.n in their eyes. A wager, a pledge, a piece of property that would soon be thrown over the cliffs with my son.

I could not remain in the upper courts. Melino could not see me in such a distraught state. You see, even then I was clinging to the impossible hope that somehow, some way, I would wake from a horrible nightmare.

I spun and ran, not caring where I went. I only had to get out of the village, to a hiding place where no one could find me.

I let misery swallow me whole. The dream that had returned to me while I was asleep only stood in mocking contrast to the reality that faced me now. I had never found love, not from a father, nor a mother, nor a husband. The only great gift the world had ever given me was Stephen.

I had followed an absurd dream and now my son would go to an early grave for a second time, innocent as a dove.

Why? Because I was not worthy. Not as a daughter, not as a wife, not as a mother.

I ran up the path that led from the Kabalan into the jungle, and I did not stop when my abdomen screamed for mercy. It deserved none, for it had failed me.

I did not stop when I could no longer see the path through my tears. They streamed down my face like a river freed from its dam.

I slowed like a stumbling, lurching cow prodded to the slaughter when my legs began to give way, but I refused to stop.

I had to get out. Just out. It no longer mattered that the jungle would swallow me or that I would be killed by a wild beast. The jagged peaks to the north would accept my resignation. The swamps to the south would drink me like an offering.

It was over. I was nothing.

But the body has its limitations, and my weakened muscles found them. I don't know how long I managed to keep moving. Only that I had reached a gra.s.sy knoll topped by several craggy boulders that overlooked the valley when my strength finally gave way.

I sank to my knees facing the boulders, lungs heaving, vision blurred. It occurred to me then that I had run north while Stephen was south. I had run away from him because in going to him I would only ensure his death. But I had still run away.

Even in this I was a failure. Powerless.

I gripped my hair with both fists, allowed my head to sag backward, and wailed as my tears wet the dust at my knees.

And there I made my outrage known to G.o.d in no uncertain terms, not sure he cared.

The rage ran its course and left me defeated. At the end of myself, my cries became a whimper.

I begged. I pleaded. My tears were my blood offering-I had nothing else.

Please...

There was no more to say.

Only please...please... over and over.

And then nothing, because I was sure that G.o.d wasn't listening to this lone soul on a hill in the middle of the jungle so far from home.

I slowly settled to my side, curled up in a ball, and lay like a dirty, disposed-of rag.

The wind blew gently over my skin, unaware of its mocking caress. Birds called in the jungle, unmindful of the pain on the earth beneath them.

For a long time I was dead to the world.

It was then that I heard the gentle voice, like an angel from a dream.

"Wake up, my child," it said.

Chapter Twenty.

AT FIRST I thought it was only another dream.

"The day is bright," the voice said. "And yet you slumber."

I pried my eyes open and stared at the gra.s.s in front of me. The voice was real? The world before me looked c.o.c.keyed from that perspective, with my cheek flat on the ground.

"Wake up," the voice said yet again, low and soothing.

It was real and it came from my right.

I jerked my head up and pushed to my elbows, twisting. There, resting against the boulder, holding a bloodstained, bone-tipped spear, stood the one Melino had called the Nameless One, watching me with kind, gentle eyes.

A two-inch strip of fox hide cinched his hair and forehead. Similar bands encircled his ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows as well.

The short lap-lap at his midsection was made from two swaths of tanned leather-of which hide, I couldn't tell. A large tribal tattoo, an O of sorts, covered the right side of his chest.

He looked at me without moving, and in those eyes I saw a vast understanding that drew me like a vortex. The warm breeze continued to sweep over my skin and lift my hair, but it seemed to move with purpose now, as if it too knew something.

For a few seconds I remained still.

"My name is Shaka," he said. "Some call me the Nameless One."

I didn't know what to say. It was the third time I'd seen him since coming to the valley, and the first time I'd heard him speak.

His voice seemed to reach into my bones. I'd heard it before, not spoken, but in song. I was sure of it. My dream. But I wasn't dreaming now, I was also sure of that.

I pushed myself to my knees and thought to rise to my feet, but somehow the thought of doing so felt presumptuous.

"You're too weak to stand?"

I cleared my throat. "No."

He pushed himself off the boulder and offered me his hand. I tentatively took it and he helped me to my feet. He wasn't Tulim. His cheekbones were slightly higher and his skin wasn't as dark, but he had the scars and lean muscles of one who had mastered the jungle.

"That's better." He offered me a kind wink, then turned to face the valley like a man eyeing the journey ahead. I followed his eyes and stared at the same jungle from which I had climbed. The Tulim valley consisted of several smaller valleys bordered by the tall cliffs and jagged peaks that protected it from invading tribes. Sweeping slopes thick with jungle descended to the southern swamps, which were just beyond view.

"You seem to have a problem," he said, keeping his eyes trained to the south. "But only because you think you do."

I turned back. I wasn't sure what to think, much less say. It occurred to me that Melino would be searching for me, frantic by now. The sun was already high in the sky. Wilam might be facing off with Kirutu in the Tegalo valley as we spoke. How many had already died?

"My problem is very real," I said.

"Is it?"

"Who are you?"

"The question you should be asking," he said, shifting his eyes to meet mine, "is who are you?"

"I'm Julian. Carter. Julian Carter." So many months had pa.s.sed since I'd last spoken my own name.

"Julian." The man who called himself Shaka smiled. "A nice name for a costume. And who is Julian Carter's father?"

"Richard Carter," I said. "He died a year ago."

"No one dies," he said. "They only shed their costumes."

His reference immediately connected with me, because I knew some things about spiritual beliefs, both in major world religions and among the Tulim. He was calling my body a costume.

"Who are you?" I asked again.

For a long time he didn't answer. I forgot that I was standing on a hill deep in the jungle. I saw only him. Only Shaka. My heart raced.

It raced because I suddenly saw myself in the dream that had first called me to leave Atlanta. Could Shaka be that one who'd called to me with his haunting melody?