Ritual

Ritual

By Mark VanTassel

Metai crossed the field, careful not to touch the blood or body parts that dotted the hard packed clay. He found Buti at the far side, laying on his back. A spear had taken him in the neck, and a sword or knife had opened his belly.

“Don’t worry, Brother,” Metai said. “I have you now.” He unfolded a large piece of linen and carefully rolled Buti into the cloth. For the final few wraps he included a couple of poles.

Once the precious bundle was secure, he lifted the ends of the poles and started back to the village.

It wasn’t a terribly long way, but Buti was a large man, and Metai was his only surviving family. Around him similar bundles passed by on their way toward the village, supported by two, three, or four family members.

A white hawk landed in a nearby tree and watched Metai pass with his bundle. A shiver went down Metai’s back. The white hawk was a messenger of death, and it refused to look away.

By the time he reached the forge his body was slick with sweat. His hands burned from gripping the poles, and his shoulders were scarcely better.

The forge was made from rocks carefully stacked. The smith’s end, his end, had a leather bellows. The rest of the forge was ceremonial, and had little need of fanning the flames. The entire structure was long enough to lay ten men, head-to-feet, in it.

The others were already in place, their families having chosen a final resting position and piled wood atop the body. The fire was the doorway to the next world. Face up indicated a rest in death, face down meant the dead would enter the afterlife face first, ready for new challenges.

Metai got the ends of the poles up on the forge, shook his hands out, then walked to the other end of the poles and lifted. Then he walked around the pivot point until he could lay Buti on the side of the forge. There was no question of how Buti would go. There was never a challenge he would not face.

Rolling Buti into the forge felt like cutting off his own foot. He could not speak here, but he put his hand on Buti’s head for a few seconds. The spirit would sense his desire to comfort it. Metai clenched his eyes shut and went for the wood. They would feed the fires until the slain were ashes and smoke.

A boy nearby sniffled, and his mother shooed him away. The purifying flame was sacred, and until the souls of the dead had been released from their flesh the only sound permitted near the forge would be the fire itself.

The forge was hot--Metai never allowed the flame to die--and Buti sizzled as Metai piled wood over him. Once the flames were tall over Buti’s corpse, family leaders came and lit their own bundles of firestarter. Within minutes the entire length of the pyre was aflame.

Metai put some extra wood over Buti, then retreated to his hut.

The hut was excellent, an upside down bowl of clay, shaped and maintained for as long as the Serai could remember. The rest of the village had mud huts or houses, with thatch roofs. This was the only building of its shape.

As he often did when overcome with emotion, Metai wondered what the shape of the smith’s home signified. No one else was allowed to copy it, but they could not remember why.

The distraction wasn’t enough this time, and he settled onto his sleeping mat and sobbed quietly as tears rolled over his face.

* * *

They fed the forge for three days, as this was known to be the amount of time required for a soul to cross to the next life. Metai drank little and did not eat. His life was the fire, his sleeping mat, and his sorrow.

On the fourth day Srian approached him with a bowl of milk and ordered him to drink it. He nodded, and took the gift. She had given him three days to mourn, and one did not challenge the First Mother.

The milk was perfect, curdled enough to thicken it, but not enough to prevent drinking it. It had a pleasant, sour tang, and Metai remembered that he was hungry.

Eksa greeted him with a sad smile and offered him a helping of yam with bits of goat. It was good of Buti’s wife to feed him. Now that Buti was gone, she had no obligation.

“Is there anything I can do?” Metai asked. He held his breath as she considered. If she said no, it meant she did not want him around. But if she found something for him to do…

She pointed to her loom. “It is broken, but I did not wish to interrupt your mourning.”

His heart rose a little. Eksa had been a friend to him ever since she and Buti married, and it would have made Buti’s loss so much worse had she turned him away.

Metai finished his meal, then went to the loom and examined it. One of the hinges was worn through. It was a perfect problem. Simple, necessary, and few others in the area could do it.

“I will bring you the replacement part later today. It was very kind of you to feed me. I will remember.”

She touched her forehead, her mouth, and then her breastbone. Thought, word, and deed. It was Buti’s mantra. He had pressed the idea into most of the village by now.

He slipped away, and for the first time since Buti’s passing he felt a hint of a smile. Guilt promptly drove the smile away. How could he be happy when Buti was gone?

A normal day around the forge meant repairing things, perhaps making something new, and training his apprentices. Srian had declared that having a single blacksmith put the entire village at risk. If anything happened to Metai, they would have to approach the hated Gulu for training. It would be expensive, and humiliating.

Today was different. Metai was the smith, and no one would allow an apprentice to touch their funeral piece.

Funeral pieces were tricky. They were forged in the ashes of the fallen, and that meant heating up the section of the forge where that body had released its soul. Getting everything just right was challenging, and normally Metai loved the work. This time he could not get over the foolishness of it all.

Ten warriors from Gulu, ten warriors from Serai. Fight until one side had been killed or driven from the field. To accomplish what? The spirits needed a gift of blood, the elders said. Blood spilled in an act of courage.

He jerked his concentration back. It would not do to foul the work because of his anger.

The piece was a spear. They had provided a strong, straight shaft. Now it needed a head. Metai worked carefully, heating, shaping, reheating, on and on. The finished piece looked like a leaf, with veins and serrated edges.

MBai’s father was pleased with the spear. He spent several minutes tracing the work with his fingertips, then handed Metai a gold coin.

“You honor my son.”

Metai bowed, then embraced the old man. Next he started on the new hinge for the loom.

Eksa was shaking out a mat when he arrived. “You are late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Be a man. Do not apologize.”

He frowned at her. “I don’t think that is right. I have heard Buti apologize to you, and you accepted it.”

“But when Buti apologized, he was wrong. What did you do wrong?”

“I was late.”

“Why?”

“I was making MBai’s funeral piece.”

“And you did well?”

He showed her the coin.

She nodded. “You did well. So when I say you are late, you apologize if you were just wasting time. Otherwise, tell me what you were doing.”

Metai handed her the new hinge. “I was preparing to repair your loom.”

“Good enough. Here, I kept your plate warm.”

* * *

It was with a good deal of unease that Metai handed the knife over to Talim’s mother. Now that it was finished, he had no way to avoid making Buti’s funeral piece.

The problem was, what to make? Buti had died in battle. There was no doubt of his courage. Tradition required a weapon, but Metai wanted to remember the farmer who helped the neighbor’s get their crops in, the leader who arbitrated fights.

So stupid, to waste such a man over a ritual.

He got out his gold. There wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be huge. Carefully, one tap at a time, he worked until the light was dim. The result was a bowl, about the right size for two swallows of water. The base was etched with roots, and the rest was etched with a trunk, spreading branches, and leaves. The Tree of Life.

Then he slept.

“You missed dinner,” Eksa said when he arrived at her hut.

Metai took out the cloth bag, then took the bowl from inside and handed it to her.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingertips over the etchings. “But what does it mean? What does it say about Buti that he did not get a spear or a knife?”

“Nothing yet,” Metai said. “But I will make it say something.”

He ate his breakfast, then collected a thick staff from Buti’s weapons rack.

“I am going to the Gulu.”

She looked at the staff, and studied his face. “You will return to me.”

“I will try.”

“You will return to me, I have spoken.”

Metai smiled at her, a full faced grin. It felt good. “Thank you for the prophecy.”

Now to see if Eksa was as powerful a seer as the white hawk.

* * *

Gulu was very like his own village. Fields of flax, sweet potatoes, and plantains surrounded a circular village ringed by a stick wall.

Farmers and children gave him unfriendly looks as he passed.

A hundred paces or so from the wall he encountered the field. It was a square, fifty-by-fifty paces of cleared ground, carefully leveled and packed hard. Metai didn’t know if it was so dark because of spilled blood, or if that was just the color of earth here.

He made a careful pile of his cloak, travel bag, and sandals beside the field. Then he walked to the center and shouted as loud as he could.

“Talbi.”

He waited for a minute or so, then repeated the challenge. Again. And again. Slowly people gathered around the field, talking softly to themselves.

Finally a familiar form emerged from the fence. He carried a staff, and had broad shoulders and large hands.

“What is the meaning of this, Metai?” he called from the edge of the field.

“Face me,” Metai said.

Talbi shook his head. “We are blacksmiths, Metai. We do not fight.”

“Talbi,” Metai screamed.

“I did not kill Buti. What good will it do to kill me?”

“Talbi!”

Talbi was a patient man. It took a long time to convince him to enter the field. He took a stance a few yards from Metai and held his staff in both hands, one end high, the other low.

Metai circled, jabbed, circled. He blocked an experimental thrust, and backed out of range of the next. Neither of them were soldiers. Blacksmiths seldom fought. Typically only when the village was threatened. Both of them were clumsy.

His opponent was larger and stronger, but Metai was a bit faster. He scored a hit on Talbi’s shin and felt a surge of hope when Talbi developed a limp.

He struck for the other leg, and everything went dark.

* * *

There was dirt in his mouth. He spit and rolled over. The side of his head touched the ground and sent a spear of agony down his body. Then he remembered where he was, and what he was doing.

He pushed himself up and turned to Talbi, who faced him with a suspicious frown, staff held ready. It was good of the man to wait like this. He could have beaten Metai to death, and no one would have blamed him.

“You have defeated me,” Metai said. He walked to his possessions and brought out the golden bowl and a small, sharp knife.

“This is Buti’s funeral piece. It holds all of his earthly power.”

He made a cut in his wrist, then held the bowl underneath.

“This is my blood, shed in honest battle. The proof of my courage, and of Talbi’s as well.”

When the bowl was filled he poured it out on the ground.

“The spirits have their due. The rites have been observed. I go now, back to my home, as do you. This is how it shall be.”

Talbi’s face hinted at a smile, and he stepped forward to clasp wrists with Metai.

“This is wisdom. I will speak to the First Mother.”

“As will I,” Metai said.

* * *

Srian looked at the bleeding bump on his head, then listened as he repeated every detail of his trip. When he was finished she stood, thinking.

He expected anger. He had overstepped his bounds, significantly.

“You lost?” she asked after several minutes of anxiety-inducing silence.

“I did.”

“Then we will need a better representative next year.” And she handed him the bowl and went into her hut.

Metai walked to his hut in a daze. Was it so simple? Could they truly cease burying their strongest? He would need to work out a ritual to replace the funeral pieces, but that seemed simple compared to what he’d already done.

When he ducked into his hut he found everything changed. It had been swept, there were two sleeping mats, and a loom on the far side. Eksa sat in front of their tiny indoor fireplace, stirring something in a pot.

“You have decided to remarry,” he said, surprised he sounded so calm.

She turned and nodded. “My husband is dead. Your family owes me.”

“I suppose we do,” Metai said.

A white shape landed with a flap of wings right outside the door, and they turned to find the white hawk staring in. It dropped a snake, and pushed the gift toward them. Then it was gone.

“What does that mean?” Eksa asked.

Metai crawled over and picked up the snake. It was pure, shining black, venomous. The only herald of death stronger than the white hawk.

“I think we should ask the First Mother. In the meantime, I will honor my brother’s debt.” He reached out and took her hand.