Read Online The Headhunter's Daughter by Tamar Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Tamar Myers
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reared back, as if they sought to protect themselves from devils, and little children usually screamed and soiled themselves. The worst reactions came from people of intermediate ages, for their response was laughter, and crude comments, which cut Ugly Eyes to the core.
Now after all these years, the sudden appearance of Bula Matadi , just before the age of bleeding—well, surely it was proof that Ugly Eyes’ time amongst the Bashilele had come to an end. For there was no such thing as a coincidence in Bashilele culture; in fact, the word did not even exist. The Headhunter had heard of this strange concept from another Mushilele who had been to the outside world and had heard about it from a missionary. Apparently, the whites ascribed many things they could not explain to this category rather than try to understand them. It never failed to amaze the Headhunter how such a primitive and ignorant people had managed to subjugate his own.
“Husband,” Wife said again, but with a great deal of urgency this time, for she could hear the keening as the visitors reached the outer tier of huts, “what is your wish?”
“We wait here and do nothing. But you, Iron Sliver, will run to the hut of Broken Jaw and fetch my daughter.”
Amanda realized that she was experiencing a rare privilege. According to Dorcas’s students this was the first time that white people had ever stepped foot in this particular Bashilele village. Ever . It was hard to say what impressed her the most.
First, there was the fact that the village was laid out in the shape of a spiral, which radiated out from a pair of trees known as the Trees of Life. These sacred trees had been planted over two skulls—one taken from a man, one from a woman—both harvested from a tribe other than the Bashilele. Their trunks were smooth like that of crape myrtle, and their oval leaves were the color of cooked spinach and roughly the size of a tablespoon. In the branches of the trees lived the spirits that protected the village.
The huts closest to the center were occupied by the chief and his wives—in this case thirteen wives—each with her own hut; then the witch doctor, and senior council members such as the Headhunter; and then so on, until the occupants of the very outer ring might be slaves, or recent arrivals from other Bashilele villages.
All the huts were rectangular, with exactly four walls, and each had a door but no windows. The door was set about a foot above the hard-packed ground as protection against snakes. The roofs were all pitched A-frames. The materials used on both walls and roofs were woven mats tied to pole frames. The mats were woven from the fibers of the raffia palm ( Raphia hookeri ) which grows in the swamps and along the streams that wind among the grassy hills of Bashilele country.
Although the men of hunting age were absent that afternoon, there were perhaps a hundred women in residence, and maybe four times that many children, and a score of elderly men; and as the small party progressed around the very clean, coiling street, doors slammed, and people either shrieked in fear or hurled angry insults at the passing demons. But not everyone .
There were a few sophisticates—folks who had been to the outside: a young blind man who mysteriously spoke three English words, “Call me Charles”; the occasional crone with the gift of second sight; and groups of young boys who, although terrified, refused to act in any way but foolishly brave. The last took turns pushing one another at the foursome, and then squealing in genuine terror while their comrades laughed nervously. It was a boys’ game that Amanda recognized as something that could be played in any culture, and in any country, around the world.
“ Waddabushekk e,” she said.
The boys fell back, apparently stunned by that one word of greeting in their tongue. But an old crone dressed only in a filthy loincloth of woven palm fibers, and whose shrunken dugs hung flat on her
Now after all these years, the sudden appearance of Bula Matadi , just before the age of bleeding—well, surely it was proof that Ugly Eyes’ time amongst the Bashilele had come to an end. For there was no such thing as a coincidence in Bashilele culture; in fact, the word did not even exist. The Headhunter had heard of this strange concept from another Mushilele who had been to the outside world and had heard about it from a missionary. Apparently, the whites ascribed many things they could not explain to this category rather than try to understand them. It never failed to amaze the Headhunter how such a primitive and ignorant people had managed to subjugate his own.
“Husband,” Wife said again, but with a great deal of urgency this time, for she could hear the keening as the visitors reached the outer tier of huts, “what is your wish?”
“We wait here and do nothing. But you, Iron Sliver, will run to the hut of Broken Jaw and fetch my daughter.”
Amanda realized that she was experiencing a rare privilege. According to Dorcas’s students this was the first time that white people had ever stepped foot in this particular Bashilele village. Ever . It was hard to say what impressed her the most.
First, there was the fact that the village was laid out in the shape of a spiral, which radiated out from a pair of trees known as the Trees of Life. These sacred trees had been planted over two skulls—one taken from a man, one from a woman—both harvested from a tribe other than the Bashilele. Their trunks were smooth like that of crape myrtle, and their oval leaves were the color of cooked spinach and roughly the size of a tablespoon. In the branches of the trees lived the spirits that protected the village.
The huts closest to the center were occupied by the chief and his wives—in this case thirteen wives—each with her own hut; then the witch doctor, and senior council members such as the Headhunter; and then so on, until the occupants of the very outer ring might be slaves, or recent arrivals from other Bashilele villages.
All the huts were rectangular, with exactly four walls, and each had a door but no windows. The door was set about a foot above the hard-packed ground as protection against snakes. The roofs were all pitched A-frames. The materials used on both walls and roofs were woven mats tied to pole frames. The mats were woven from the fibers of the raffia palm ( Raphia hookeri ) which grows in the swamps and along the streams that wind among the grassy hills of Bashilele country.
Although the men of hunting age were absent that afternoon, there were perhaps a hundred women in residence, and maybe four times that many children, and a score of elderly men; and as the small party progressed around the very clean, coiling street, doors slammed, and people either shrieked in fear or hurled angry insults at the passing demons. But not everyone .
There were a few sophisticates—folks who had been to the outside: a young blind man who mysteriously spoke three English words, “Call me Charles”; the occasional crone with the gift of second sight; and groups of young boys who, although terrified, refused to act in any way but foolishly brave. The last took turns pushing one another at the foursome, and then squealing in genuine terror while their comrades laughed nervously. It was a boys’ game that Amanda recognized as something that could be played in any culture, and in any country, around the world.
“ Waddabushekk e,” she said.
The boys fell back, apparently stunned by that one word of greeting in their tongue. But an old crone dressed only in a filthy loincloth of woven palm fibers, and whose shrunken dugs hung flat on her
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