But many of the Warik also wore human bones and favored headdresses formed from the carcasses of large black fruit bats or foxes. Skulls hung from the backs of many, and even more wore the lower jaw of a human as a necklace. These skulls came from their enemies, I guessed, not from deceased relatives.
Beside me Lela had already begun to move with the music, grinning from ear to ear. Her eyes were locked on the large tree, where several small groups of lords had gathered beneath its branches. Tengan, the muhan warrior she hoped would choose her, was there. As were Butos and Wilam.
And Kirutu. All three in ornate splendor. A young woman sat on the ground next to Kirutu. His new wife.
A caller’s voice rang out: “We are the people of the Tulim, and these are our muhan.”
Although I could understand some of his words, Lela repeated them for my benefit as five thousand voices thundered approval in tandem with pounding heels. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The ground shook under my feet.
“We are the people of the Tulim and the evil spirits flee at the sight of our shields.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The guttural sound of their resounding mantra filled the valley and sent a chill through my bones. I felt terrified and awed at once.
“We are the people of the Tulim and the whole world fears our name.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“Now our muhan Kirutu will receive his bride and his seed will bring new life.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Another cry went up, this one from an elderly man who ran toward us, then doubled back, shaking his long bow at the sky. “Our muhan is Wilam and he will bring great power through his many wives.”
Eyes turned toward Melino. Her arrival had been noted.
The response rumbled. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
The man ran again. “Our father is Isaka and the sky bows to his name.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Of all the muhan, only Isaka was absent. I was told that he was still alive, but asleep. I wondered if he was in a coma.
“Our muhan is Butos and he will send the spirits to the sea,” the runner cried.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
“Our muhan is Kirutu and he will gather the wam like insects and cook them in his fire.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
They were singing of their muhan, but all eyes seemed to have turned in our direction, and it occurred to me that they were now looking at me, not Melino.
“It is now in your hands,” Melino whispered. She stepped away from me and walked toward her husband, who stood under the tree with his back to us.
The first caller’s voice rang out for all to hear once again. “Now we will show our bodies to the spirits of the sky and show that with our muhan we have no fear.”
This time the throng edged forward, stamping the ground with their feet as they chanted agreement. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Melino’s entourage moved closer, taking me with them. Like a noose, the gathering closed around us. I kept my eyes on Wilam’s powerful back, refusing to return the stares of so many who had singled me out.
I was far too terrified to glance in Kirutu’s direction.
Like a tidal wave, anxiety swamped me. I was stepping forward with the rest, moving ever closer to the ceremony under the tree, but I felt as if I were alone on a sea that would swallow me at any moment. I was numb. I did not belong.
The drumming and chanting intensified. Warriors encroached, bending forward as they pressed in, closer, closer. Their voices echoed through the valley: whoa, whoa, whoa. But I only heard one word: wam, wam, wam.
A new thought suddenly filled my mind. What if Wilam had already told Kirutu his intentions? What if any attempt on my part was already a moot point?
Melino had reached her husband and was speaking into his ear.
Still the warriors tightened their circle, and I with them. Still the drums pounded. Still the chants rumbled through the jungle. Sawim, the witch doctor from the Karun clan, stood to one side of Kirutu, watching me with flat eyes.
We were only twenty paces from the ceremony when I dared a glance in Kirutu’s direction. Panic began to blind me. His unwavering eyes stared, void of expression. But in them I imagined hatred and rage. His tall, muscled form glistened with oil and sweat, and with each breath his body swelled like a knot of angry black vipers. A long, stained cassowary beak hung from his neck, splitting his chest down the breastbone.
I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. Here was the man who would rape me and then drag me for crocodile bait. Only Wilam could save me.
The chanting suddenly stopped; the drums ceased. The throng stood still. All but me.
I was breathing hard, lost in fear, and I was sure that every eye was fixed on me, the lowly white woman who had dared approach their powerful muhan as if she herself were Tulim. Or was I only imagining such direct attention?
I glanced around frantically and saw their eyes watching me in silence. But there was Melino with her gentle eyes. And Wilam, staring with some curiosity.
In that moment of raw dread, a simple thought dropped into my head, like a gift from heaven.
Sing.
That mad dream that had first prompted me to leave Atlanta skipped through my mind for the first time in weeks. The form in that dream had sung. I had long dismissed any real connection between the dream and my new reality. In fact, I had never again had the dream. But now I remembered the pure, clear note sung in that distant dream as I had first heard it, not as the mocking howl it had become in my more recent memory.
I could sing. It was central to Tulim culture. How often had I delighted the children with my soft song? And I knew no other way to present myself.
So I began to sing.
At first my voice sounded like a pitiful cry from a strangled bird. No song in particular, only a tune, and no tune that I knew.
If any of those near had not been staring, they were now. My voice strengthened and my tone became a little clearer.
My eyes shifted to Wilam and with one look at his soft eyes my tune found melody, and my melody lyrics. A familiar song that I had sung to an audience before warbled from my throat, then found its wings and rose, sweet and high, like a lark sent to the heavens.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
The stage was now mine and mine alone. It was as if my entire life had somehow pointed to this moment. I forced my legs forward and stepped out from the circle of teeming Tulim.
“That saved a wretch like me…”
My feet carried me into the clearing. It was an intimate call to Wilam, for in that moment I was indeed the wretch, begging for his grace. He couldn’t know the meaning of the words, but neither could he mistake the desperate longing for mercy in my eyes.
“I once was lost but now am found/Was blind but now I see.”
And with those words I let myself believe that I indeed could see.
I could see the beauty of the children laughing with me at the pool; I could see Lela begging me to make this babies; I could see Melino telling me how lovely I looked; I could see Wilam watching me with fascination.
I stepped forward, carried by the music, light like a feather as I slowly approached Wilam.