They reacted to his movement immediately, ten or more of them leaping forward, clubs swinging already. The impulse to defend himself loomed large for an instant before his training kicked in. To resist would only bring greater force to bear against him.
So he let the blows fall, a pounding of staffs and clubs that thudded against his back and shoulders and head, forcing him to his knees. They were yelling, crying out his insubordination and threatening to kill him, the wam, the worm dragged from the jungle to be fed to their pigs.
Shaka had taught him to disassociate from physical pain, thereby robbing its power to control his body, and he was able to do so now.
But he was aware of another impulse that lapped at his mind—offense at being so forcefully rejected by others of his kind. He was human, they were human, and yet they clearly did not want him.
Was he not acceptable to them? His skin was the wrong color, perhaps, or his presence threatened them, though he meant them no harm. He’d only come to meet his mother.
A single hard blow landed on the back of his head and the world started to fade. He felt his body toppling forward but broke his fall with his right forearm. All that remained was a throbbing pain that spread down his neck, fueled by those screaming demons of fear that taunted him.
If the warriors had wanted to kill him, why hadn’t they done so in the field? Instead they’d attacked Lela. His mind swam in a sea of confusion.
“Bring him!”
He lifted his head and stared up the path. Slowly his eyes found focus.
There at the bottom of the steps that lead to the darkened entrance stood a man. A tall warrior with sharply defined muscles, older than some, more powerful, even in his harsh eyes, than any of the others.
This was Kirutu, ruler of all Tulim. Stephen knew it immediately by the scar running down his chest, described by his mother.
Hands dug under his arms and pulled him to his feet. But he didn’t need their help. His strength had returned as quickly as the blows had robbed him of it.
They shoved him forward, cuffing at his shoulders and his ears with cupped palms, quiet now in the presence of their leader.
“Release him.”
They let him go and backed away, leaving Stephen to stand three paces from Kirutu, who studied him with dark eyes set deeply in the shadows of a chiseled face. Here Stephen did not see fear. Only rejection.
For a long time the man didn’t speak.
Don’t forget, Stephen.
His mind was vacant. Perhaps his mother would know what to do.
“Who are you?” Kirutu asked in a low voice.
“My name is Stephen.”
Kirutu stared at him.
“Answer my question. Who are you?”
He hadn’t heard? Or didn’t understand the word—Stephen wasn’t a Tulim name.
“I’m the son of Julian, the woman you took as your own,” Stephen said.
The ruler’s face darkened.
“You refuse to speak the truth in my presence? When I ask who you are, you will speak only what is true.”
Stephen hesitated, then said what he thought the man wanted to hear.
“I am Outlaw.”
“You are nothing!” Kirutu hissed. He stepped forward, circling to Stephen’s left, speaking in a low, gravelly tone that was neither gentle nor accusing, like a man simply reporting the truth.
“You have no place…no home…you do not belong to anyone.”
He walked behind, rounding him, speaking matter-of-factly.
“In this way you are lower than the wam, viler than the serpents who slither in the grass. An outcast who dares enter the Tulim valley with hopes of finding a home. So then I will help you understand.”
When he came to a stop he was only a pace from Stephen. His skin smelled freshly washed and rubbed with oil from the angalo flower, which offered a sweet scent. When he spoke, the scent of rapina bark carried to Stephen on his breath.
“You are Outlaw and dead to this world. Tell me this is so.”
He thought about it and found the words true.
“I am Outlaw and I am dead to this world.”
“It is the only reason I am bound to let you live. You are dead to me. Knowing this you come. Why?”
“To speak to my mother.”
The brow over Kirutu’s right eye rose and a smile slowly twisted his face.
“And yet you have no mother. You are alone, never to belong. If you were not dead already, I would kill you now.”
For a long moment Stephen stood still, hardly aware of the meaning behind those words. And yet something in him had shifted. The sounds of the jungle had faded, as had the faint, high-pitched whine that had come and gone with his remembering and forgetting.
Slowly a new awareness grew in his mind. An isolation that he’d never contended with. The dawning realization that Kirutu was right. He was alone. He didn’t have a mother. Hadn’t Shaka taught him this very thing?
Hadn’t Shaka said that his identity with and in the things and relationships of this world only distracted from his true identity and could thus be his downfall?
He looked at the warriors staring back at him with vacant, dark eyes. He knew that he was forgetting something—being one with his Father—but he now felt oddly disconnected from that truth.
Here in the flesh, in the real world, he saw only rejection. And he felt only isolation. The feeling threatened to bring fear with it, so Stephen shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.
When he looked back at Kirutu, the ruler wore a knowing grin.
“I don’t belong to your world,” Stephen said. “It holds no power over me.”
“No? And I say that every pig will root in the mud until he finds food. Perhaps if I show you that food, you will pretend to be alive. Then I will have reason to kill you as well.”
What he could mean, Stephen didn’t know.
“Bring her!” Kirutu ordered to one side, expression now flat.
Two warriors emerged from around the corner, supporting a hooded woman who struggled feebly in their grasp. She was one of them and her hands were tied behind her back.
They stood her up next to Kirutu, who kept his eyes on Stephen.
“All of this valley and everything in it belong to me,” the ruler said. “What I do to one, I can do to whomever I choose.”
He waited a beat to let his words carry, then issued an order.
“Remove her hood.”
One of the warriors jerked the hood from the woman’s head. Stephen’s mind put reason to what he saw before his heart could react.
Here stood Lela, hair still matted with blood. She was awake and her eyes were round with fear. If not for a gag, screams might have accompanied the tears running down her cheeks.
But he didn’t need to hear her screams, he could hear her heart already. Save me, she was crying. You said you would protect me.
Before Stephen could react, Kirutu stepped behind Lela, grabbed her hair, jerked her head back, and ran a sharp bone knife across her exposed neck.
He held her still for a moment, then released his hold. Lela collapsed to the ground. Dead in her own blood.
Stephen recoiled.
Do not forget. Do not forget.
“She means nothing to you because you are dead,” Kirutu said. “And yet you show fear because you mistake yourself as one who deserves a woman. You deserve nothing but your own misery. In this too you are alone.”
Shaka’s teachings flowed through his mind, longing to be absorbed but finding no place to rest. In their place a larger realization swelled: Lela had accepted him where these others did not. She had trusted him. He’d failed her.
“Take her!”
The two warriors grabbed her arms and dragged her around the corner, leaving Stephen numb on the path.