Read Online Changer's Daughter by Jane Lindskold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Lindskold
Ads: Link
impressions would suggest.
“I am,” Aduke says aloud, in complete honesty, “very tired. My breasts ache with milk I cannot give my child. My heart hurts, and I am sick of the heat and the wind.”
“Don’t ever feel sick from the wind,” Oya says. “The wind is a woman’s friend, the storm power that remained hers when Shango took the thunder and lightning. Sickness comes when the wind stops blowing in fresh air.”
“It is an ill wind that blows no one good,” Aduke quotes with a smile. Only after she says this does she remember the old Yoruban story. It had not been just any woman who had possessed the wind. It had been Oya.
The babalawo is ready for her now. He greets her, welcoming her to sit on the ground in front of him. She does so, placing a few naira on his mat as Oya has coached her. Even as she moves, she recites the appropriate greetings for a young woman to an older man, for a supplicant to a priest.
The Ifa diviner is an old man, and what hair he has is sparse and white. His costume is the traditional long robe of striped cotton, bright and clean except where it has trailed in the dirt. Clearly his family treasures him. Kehinde would treasure him, too, as a repository of nearly lost stories.
When the old man smiles at her, he shows more gum than teeth. When he speaks, slight whistles and lisps slip out where the teeth should be, but Aduke understands him without too much difficulty.
“Daughter, what do you wish to know of yourself?”
“I had a baby,” she says, and despite the fact that she has rehearsed these words over and over in her mind over her voice cracks, “a son, still nursing. He was taken by”—she drops her voice low, leaning forward so only the father of secrets will hear her—“the Owner of Hot Water.”
She feels hot water falling on her hands and bare arms and realizes that she is crying. Letting the tears fall, she continues:
“Baba, why did my son die? Do I have an enemy? Is he àbikú? What can I do to keep my future children, if I am blessed with them, alive and safe? Will I have other children?”
Aduke stops, realizing that she has departed from her prepared speech. She swallows hard. Somehow she is leaking all over: tears from her eyes, milk from her breasts, words from her mouth. Whatever happened to the Aduke she thought she knew?
Another question, she scolds herself. Be silent and listen.
The babalawo seems to know that she has collected herself.
“It is easiest,” he says with a gentle smile, “if we begin with one question. The stories may give you the answers you need at once, but if not, you can ask more questions.”
Aduke nods. “Yes, Baba.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Aduke reiterates her first question. “Why did my son die? I know the simple answer. There was an illness, but...”
She stops in mid-word. That had been the aróso speaking, prating about simple answers and illnesses. In a moment she would have been talking about bacterial infections, vaccinations, disease vectors. Why ask if she knows the answers?
“I’m sorry, Baba,” she says repentantly. “My question is ‘Why did my son die?’”
The babalawo smiles and nods. Then he taps a bell against his divining tray to get the god Ifa’s attention. When this is done, he scoops his sixteen palm nuts, polished with frequent use, from the carved wooden cup made specifically to hold them. This cup is particularly beautiful. A man on horseback surrounded by his entourage is carved around the stem of the cup. The cup itself is over their heads, like a ceremonial umbrella.
Normally, Aduke would have admired the artistry. Today, she is too nervous.
While he casts the nuts, Aduke feels her thoughts wandering again. She lets them go, feeling them blown on a wind she rides.
Ifa divination is not the only form of traditional divination she might have chosen. There are many simpler forms: casting four cowries or four kola nuts; water gazing, and trance utterances. Some
“I am,” Aduke says aloud, in complete honesty, “very tired. My breasts ache with milk I cannot give my child. My heart hurts, and I am sick of the heat and the wind.”
“Don’t ever feel sick from the wind,” Oya says. “The wind is a woman’s friend, the storm power that remained hers when Shango took the thunder and lightning. Sickness comes when the wind stops blowing in fresh air.”
“It is an ill wind that blows no one good,” Aduke quotes with a smile. Only after she says this does she remember the old Yoruban story. It had not been just any woman who had possessed the wind. It had been Oya.
The babalawo is ready for her now. He greets her, welcoming her to sit on the ground in front of him. She does so, placing a few naira on his mat as Oya has coached her. Even as she moves, she recites the appropriate greetings for a young woman to an older man, for a supplicant to a priest.
The Ifa diviner is an old man, and what hair he has is sparse and white. His costume is the traditional long robe of striped cotton, bright and clean except where it has trailed in the dirt. Clearly his family treasures him. Kehinde would treasure him, too, as a repository of nearly lost stories.
When the old man smiles at her, he shows more gum than teeth. When he speaks, slight whistles and lisps slip out where the teeth should be, but Aduke understands him without too much difficulty.
“Daughter, what do you wish to know of yourself?”
“I had a baby,” she says, and despite the fact that she has rehearsed these words over and over in her mind over her voice cracks, “a son, still nursing. He was taken by”—she drops her voice low, leaning forward so only the father of secrets will hear her—“the Owner of Hot Water.”
She feels hot water falling on her hands and bare arms and realizes that she is crying. Letting the tears fall, she continues:
“Baba, why did my son die? Do I have an enemy? Is he àbikú? What can I do to keep my future children, if I am blessed with them, alive and safe? Will I have other children?”
Aduke stops, realizing that she has departed from her prepared speech. She swallows hard. Somehow she is leaking all over: tears from her eyes, milk from her breasts, words from her mouth. Whatever happened to the Aduke she thought she knew?
Another question, she scolds herself. Be silent and listen.
The babalawo seems to know that she has collected herself.
“It is easiest,” he says with a gentle smile, “if we begin with one question. The stories may give you the answers you need at once, but if not, you can ask more questions.”
Aduke nods. “Yes, Baba.”
“What is it you want to know?”
Aduke reiterates her first question. “Why did my son die? I know the simple answer. There was an illness, but...”
She stops in mid-word. That had been the aróso speaking, prating about simple answers and illnesses. In a moment she would have been talking about bacterial infections, vaccinations, disease vectors. Why ask if she knows the answers?
“I’m sorry, Baba,” she says repentantly. “My question is ‘Why did my son die?’”
The babalawo smiles and nods. Then he taps a bell against his divining tray to get the god Ifa’s attention. When this is done, he scoops his sixteen palm nuts, polished with frequent use, from the carved wooden cup made specifically to hold them. This cup is particularly beautiful. A man on horseback surrounded by his entourage is carved around the stem of the cup. The cup itself is over their heads, like a ceremonial umbrella.
Normally, Aduke would have admired the artistry. Today, she is too nervous.
While he casts the nuts, Aduke feels her thoughts wandering again. She lets them go, feeling them blown on a wind she rides.
Ifa divination is not the only form of traditional divination she might have chosen. There are many simpler forms: casting four cowries or four kola nuts; water gazing, and trance utterances. Some
Similar Books
