You know the disclaimer! Long read. NSFW. Keep away from prudes, children, and ideological fanatics. Comments are welcomed and encouraged.
Hot. Hot and dry. Hot and dry and no shade. My dress shoes fell apart a long time ago. About the same time my red dress was almost completely ripped off me. But I escaped them. I won’t die by my kidnapper’s hands. I’ll die in the African savanna instead if I don’t find shelter.
The kidnappers are far behind me. I know I am completely free of them. I wasn’t what they expected. I wasn’t a meek timid girl that they could intimidate and slap around into submission. I fought from the moment I was snatched. I bit and gouged and returned fists for fists. I remember a cage, vaguely. Somehow I escaped from it into the cargo truck that was bouncing along. No other vehicles behind them, they never saw me jump from the truck and roll into the bush.
But that was a day… or was it days… ago. All that didn’t matter now. I was in an African savanna, unprepared for the environment, and it would be the savanna that kills me. Dehydrated, I sat down in the shade of an acacia tree. I noted with clarity, the claw marks on the trunk and lower branches. I hoped the lions got to me first. At least they would ensure I was dead before having dinner. The heat seems to echo in my bones. My body vibrates to unheard sounds.
Leaning my head against the tree, I feel the vibrations and realize I can harmonize with them with audible sounds. I start humming to myself, immersing my fading awareness in the sounds I am feeling and the sounds I am making. I feel as if I am becoming part of the tree. Leaving the body behind, my soul is melting into the savanna. If death comes now, I am prepared. Another breath, then darkness as I faint.
My head is sharply jerked to the right. Loud sounds abuse my ears as hands abuse my face. Hands? I fear the kidnappers have found me and start to blindly fight against the closest shapes. The sounds coalese into human voices, some angry, some amused. Strong arms restrain me to the ground. Smooth hands stroke my face and arms. Soothing voices calm my nerves. The angry voice is a ways away from me, out of arm’s reach. The amused voice is over my head.
I realize I haven’t opened my eyes. The light filtering through the reed wall stabs at me when I do. The women holding me down shout in triumph as I come to my senses. More hands roughly pat my face. A gesture of consolation, I understand. The language completely escapes me. I am pushed into a seated position. A gourd bowl filled with water is pushed into my hands. I drink greedily from it.
The angry voice belongs to a man, who is being roughly chased out of the hut by the other women. He eyes me warily, as if I were a monster given human form. I commit to memory his appearance, and ensure that he sees me studying him. His face twitches as we make eye contact. I settle into patient apprehension. He shouts harsh tones and leaves the hut a little too quickly.
Our visual combat did not go unnoticed. I hear chuckling again and look above me. The only other man in the hut is supporting my back. He has necklaces, bracelets, anklets, earrings made of bones. He is scarred from balding scalp to toughened foot. Most of the scars are intentional. I know nothing of the people that surround me, but a familiar vibration emanates from him. He is their sorcerer, their wise-man, their shaman. And he knows I can ‘hear’ him. He looks down and smiles at me. Saying nothing, he puts the water bowl back at my lips, and nods. Obediently, I finish the water in the bowl. It is only when I tilt the bowl to drain it, do I see the crushed seeds in the bottom of the bowl, and taste the sharp flavor that swirls about my tongue.
I glance back up at him, my face contorted in rage and betrayal. He starts to quietly hum. I hear the same vibrations as at the tree. Soul speaks to soul. I know he is not going to hurt me. I know that he wants to help me. I hum in harmony with him. Several women are in the hut with us, but they fade from my awareness. The sharpness from the seeds numb me and I slowly collapse into the sorcerer’s arms. The humming follows me into dreamless sleep.
I wake the next morning. My clothes have been changed. A light tan cloth is wrapped around my waist like a wrap skirt. The remains of my dress and bra have been replaced with a dark tan short shirt. I’m wearing sandals. I’m not wearing panties. My hair has been washed and cut very short. A plain thong has been tied around my neck. It is short but not tight. However I am unable to unknot it. A fear creeps over me, that I have been claimed as the slave/wife of one of the men in the village.
A hand slaps at the reed door, some shouting directed at me. I stand up as the woman enters the hut. I note there is no lock or restraint on the door. The woman carries herself with the dignity of a long, hard working life. I bow to her in respect to this. She stops short at my action, blinks a few times, then with great hand waving, dismisses my gesture. She pulls me up to a full standing position, and inspects me from head to foot. Chattering away in her native tongue, she pulls at the shirt. She is unhappy with the way the tight shirt compresses my breasts. With no shame or hesitancy, she cups and bounces my breasts through the shirt, and clucks with disapproval. With hand gestures she leads me to understand that the standard in her village is for breasts to swing freely. The tight shirt prevents my larger than village average breasts from doing so.
She is so matter of fact in inspecting my appearance, I have no opportunity nor reason to be embarrassed. She grabs at my American hips and pats my ass approvingly. Absentmindedly I pull the skirt cloth up over my waist, to minimize my American stomach bulge. She slaps my hands away and tucks the skirt cloth under my stomach. She rubs my exposed belly with more sounds of approval. I wonder if she thinks I’m pregnant.
She leads me out of the hut into the village’s central clearing. All the women are there, along with prepubescent sons. The sorcerer is there as well, but all the other males of puberty age and older are gone. The matriarch presents me to the village women, patting my breasts, stomach and ass. I hold a straight face, realizing she is presenting me as a potential breeder. The reactions of the other women help to strengthen my assumption. The more the matriarch blathers on about my shape, the tighter lipped the childless women are.
The sorcerer suddenly laughs. Great bellowing peals of laughter. He addresses her, shaking his head and waving with his hands. I read his body language to mean, “You couldn’t be more wrong!”. The matriarch points out my American shape and sets her body in a challenging pose. Legs slightly apart, arms crossed before her.
He comes forward and silently fingers the leather thong tied at my neck. Many of the other women nod. He dismisses my shape and points to my sternum. He holds up my hands that still bear marks of the fight with the kidnappers. His body language says, “This is a fighter, not a lover. A protector, not a breeder.” The women that looked on disapprovingly when the matriarch was speaking, now nod in ferocious agreement.
The matriarch nods her head in a gesture any child should recognize. “I’ll go along with you for now, but I’ll be proven right in the end.” The sorcerer cups my face gently. I ‘hear’ vibrations emanating from him again. Soul speaks to soul. I need to be patient. Go along with the matriarch for now. Try to fit in. My time will come.
I nod at the sorcerer and turn to the matriarch. She interprets this as justification and victory. She pulls me by the hand away from the sorcerer’s reach and introduces me to the village women and their children.
~~
A week has passed since waking up in the hut. I’ve managed to slip into the flow of everyday life. Waking early in the morning, going with other women to fill pots of water, tending goats, mending huts, preparing food. I have given up on rescue, on going back to my home in America. Some of the children thought I was fair game to be picked on. They quickly found that while I can not speak the language, the Glare of Impending Doom cuts across all cultural and language barriers. A few mothers look at me in disapproval when I refuse to be their childrens’ kick toy. Most of the mothers, however, silently chuckle to themselves. The days start to flow like a river.
The men divide their time, and numbers, between hunting for meat, and teaching the adolescent boys the necessary skills to survive. A few look me over with unhidden agendas. I stare at them with emotionless face. Coolly staring them down until they become uncomfortable and decide to find some other place to be. The matriarch berates the men that back down from me. Somehow I know she is berating them for not putting me in my place. There is no room in their society for a childless woman warrior.
The men have been anxious of late. I have picked up a few words here and there and know the majority of their discussion is of the dwindling number of game and the increasing aggression of lions. A conversation is brought to an abrupt end with the words {lion}, {child}, and {eaten} in the last sentence. To speak of such things is to invite them to happen in their life. No one will speak of the child-killer lion that has attacked another village.
I am pounding seeds into flour not far from them. My face gives the appearance I have devoted all my attention to this task. My ears hear the sound of my name in a new conversation. In a question given in teasing tones, an unmarried man is asked if {sex} {her} {small} {boy}. I can’t make out any words in his response, but he is insulted by the question. Laughter around the fire. I hear a different man say firmly {prey} {warrior} {kill}, followed by the almost imperceptible sound of someone moving away from the fire. I stop listening with my ears, and instead tune into the ambient vibrations of the earth. He has gotten up, moved away from the fire, and is widely flanking me from behind. He is timing his foot steps to fall in time with my pounding on the seeds. I wait for him to get within striking distance.
The other men at the fire suddenly strike up a loud and raucous conversation. I understand this to be a distraction meant to turn my attention. I remain pounding seeds. Two men stand up with accusatory tones. I watch other people look up at the mock-fight. I remain pounding seeds. The warrior “stalking” me is making his approach, reaching out for my head. I remain pounding seeds until he is committed in his movement.
I lean forward over the seed rock and sweep my legs out behind me. I catch the man at the knees, and tilt him into a violent sideways somersault. Allowing my momentum to spin me around, I grab him about his waist and viciously pile drive him into the hard dirt. As he falls, I twist him so that he lands face down on the mud made from his spittle. Easily picking up the stone tool, I kneel hard into his back and twist one arm up and behind his head. Driving the stone tool an inch into the ground before his face, I finally get his attention.
The men at the fire are on their feet, some of them armed. All of them looking at me in shock and horror. The women are frozen as well. Only the matriarch is moving towards me, but the glare from my face makes her pause as well. The sorcerer is watching from the entrance of his hut.
Leaning over the captured man, I kiss him gently on the cheek, and say one word with soft force. {No} I do not know if they understand my accent. Hopefully, they understand my reaction. I will not be hunted. Not by a human.
My captive doesn’t struggle. I feel no fight in him. He lays there, in sharp breaths from the pained angle of his arm. A few breaths more, then a nod. I feel him relax in my grip. He has surrendered. I release my hold, and help him to his feet. I make a big show of wiping the dust and dirt off him. I wipe the mud from around his mouth. He allows me to without complaint or derision. I turn him towards the men at the fire, and gently push him away. Knowing I’m taking a risk, I pick up the stone tool, wipe it off, and resume pounding seeds.
The matriarch starts to yell at me, but the old warrior cuts her off. Some of the women hurl epithets at me, I do not acknowledge their sounds. Several other men at the fire pick themselves up to charge at me. The old warrior stands between me and them.
I focus on finishing the seed flour and make the mistake of not listening to the ambient vibrations. I did not hear the old warrior coming up behind me again. I did not feel the leather cloth falling over my head until I was blinded. I snatched the cover off, ready to jump into battle, but the sight of the blade before my face made me pause.
It looks like a machete my father used to have. The hilt was leather thongs crudely wrapped. There were nicks, dents, and jagged gouges. The metal was old and weathered. This is a well used blade. A once sharpened blade. I look up at the wielder, the old warrior. He points at the stone tool and tells me {ground}. I drop the stone tool. He hands me a different stone. From the wearing, I would say it is a sharpening stone. He points at the leather cover, {hide}. I pick it up.
He yells at the men, something about {sitting place}. They look at him in askance. He yells at them again, brandishing the sword wildly. The men make a hole at the fire. He calls my name. {Come.} He leads me to the men’s fire, and directs me to sit. I stand and refuse, feeling this is a line too far to cross. He tells me to sit again. I say {Male}, {sitting place}. Some of the men nod in agreement with me. A few just watch me coldly.
The sorcerer is suddenly at my side. With a firm hand, he pushes on my shoulder. My knees buckle involuntarily and I fall to a seated position where the old warrior had pointed me to. The old warrior takes the sharpening stone, and shows me how to maintain the sword. He hands the sword and stone back to me, and turns his attention away. I look up at the sorcerer who has engaged the old warrior in conversation. I am sitting at the men’s fire, completely ignored.
Might as well work on the blade, it is in my hands. All of time and awareness stops while I’m working on the blade. It is some time before I realize I am humming vibrations to and with the blade. I am speaking to it, to the soul of the tool. And listening to it vibrate back. Soul talks to soul, and I suddenly know how to smooth out the gouges and nicks without undermining the metal’s integrity. I hear it sing of battles and of being wielded by warriors. It sings of youths with more desire than experience misusing it. As I work on the blade, the vibrations started out harsh and discordant. When I finish, the tones are harmonic and pure. I hold up the blade and admire how the fire’s reflection dances across it. I am smiling with deep satisfaction.
Only then do I look up at the others at the fire. The other warriors. The old warrior that tussled with me. The sorcerer. Their conversation had stopped long ago, and they have been watching me this entire time. We all say nothing for a moment. I wrap the blade in the hide wrap and hand it back to the old warrior, handle first.
He takes the sword, measures its weight in his hands, then unwraps it. He treats it gingerly and lovingly. He whispers to it, and I can feel the sword vibrating back to him. He runs his fingers along every line of sight. Cuts his thumb along the edge, feeding the blade with his own blood. I can feel the sword delighting in him as much as he delights in it. He looks up at the sorcerer, and merely nods.
The sorcerer looks at me. He reaches over and fingers the leather thong tied around my neck. He is speaking to the men assembled at the fire. I know I am the subject of the speech, but I do not know what is being said. The other men nod when he is finished speaking. He pulls me up from the men’s fire, and leads me to his hut. {Sleep.} {Here.} I am overwhelmed as if sedated and sleep peacefully through the night.
The sorcerer is watching me when I wake up before dawn. My clothes have been changed again during the night. I know I had sex with the sorcerer sometime during the night, but it wasn’t an act of pleasure, but an act of magic. I wasn’t myself during the event, and my memory of it is muddled. But I am not angry with him. Nor am I ashamed. I do not feel taken advantage of. We had met as equals of opposite gender. I felt stronger in ways I normally felt weak, and weaker in ways I normally felt strong. As I watched him, watching me, I knew he felt the same.
The sound of bleating goats remind me of my responsibilities. I have to get water. I nod at him, he pulls me to my feet. I notice I am wearing thicker sandals now, and my belt is made for carrying things. My thin woman’s skirt has been replaced with a man’s kilt. I still have a thin shirt, but a thick cloak has been wrapped around my shoulders. The sorcerer walks me outside the hut, where the awakening villagers are moving around in morning activities.
In full sight of everyone, but with no speeches or preambles, he fumbles with my belt. He has attached a water gourd, a knife with scabbard, and several lengths of thongs. These were the things he would give to a boy about to embark on his manhood initiation quest. The villagers try not to be nosy, but everyone is watching. He looks at me and nods. He says short words. {After sun.} {Begin.} The manhood initiation quest starts at sunset, but the boys are given their items the morning of. Just like I have.
He pushes me towards the waiting group of girls. {Goats! Water!} The girls shy away from me as I approach. The few that try to talk to me use male gendered pronouns. Regardless of body shape, I am considered a male in this village now.
As we head out for the watering hole, I hear the matriarch yelling at us. There are other children in tow with her. Younger girls and prepubescent boys are handed off to us. She stares at me, visibly upset. I can feel she has things she wants to say to me, but my lack of their language prevents it.
A few initiated boys have also joined our group. Our strong protectors. I can tell the girls are already teasing them about the Woman-Boy in front of them. The boys are not happy to see me. The girls are happy to have another tool to tease the boys with. I note that gender teasing is cross cultural.
The initiated boys, really too young to call them men just yet, are quick to place me at the rear of the group. I smile to myself, knowing they are jostling for position. The one at the front determines where we walk and has responsibility for everyone’s safety. Only the weakest is placed at the rear, so if a lion attacks, the least useful person will be the one to be targeted first. We set off for the watering hole, which is of course, uncomfortably distant from the village.
The sex magic from the night before has left my body buzzing with unusual harmonics. I was having difficulty on focusing on the kids in my group. I was listening to the ground, the trees, the rocks, the wind. To the gnats and biting flies. To the ants and rodents. To the birds of prey above us and the vultures far in the distance. To the roving hyenas on the fringes of my awareness and the lion laying in wait at the watering hole now a short distance away.
Wait.
WHAT?
I bark out “{STOP}” in shock. The girls stop and turn to me, the young men continue on. I yell at them to stop again, but they deride me and continue on. “{LION!} {WATER!}” The girls, having been trained well, picked up the younger children and began to walk briskly back towards the village. I know they will break out into a full run when out of burst distance from the watering hole. One of the young men, quickly leaps to the front of the girls. I wrinkle my face knowing he is leading the retreat, not to ensure their safety, but to brag that he led them out of danger.
The loudest and most brash of the escort is now making attacking gestures towards me. He is working himself up to outright attacking me. I look past him however, and see a boy of about 8, splashing at the water’s edge. He had been overlooked by the retreating girls and was so close to the waiting lion, I could feel the lion preparing to ambush the small child. I scream at the boy. {COME! COME!} But the boy just looks at me and laughs. I race past the offended teenager, pulling my dagger from my sheath. Just then, another boy spots the crouching lion. {LION! LION!}
My intent was to snatch the child, turn, and run like hell. The small boy saw me running towards him, weapon in hand. He screams and turns himself to run away. But he slips in the mud. Just as he falls, the lion leaps out of the bush. The lion misses grabbing the boy by his neck because of the fall, but does grab the boy by his leg. The lion ignored me, thinking me a futile, solitary human.
I scream/vibrate a howl of power and bury my knife deep into the lioness’ leg, severing a tendon and laming her. She drops the boy into the water and turns to deal with me. I am raked across the face and chest with her paw, but manage not to be seriously injured. The swipe gives my body enough momentum to pull the knife free from her leg. As she tries to leap upon me, I duck the swipe and bring my dagger up under her jawbone, reaching deep into the muscles of her neck. The spray from her slashed artery initiates me into Death. She twitches as she falls and dies soon after hitting the ground.
I fall into the water, losing the knife. I hear the boy screaming in pain and terror. I ask myself why the young men hadn’t pulled him to safety yet. As I pull myself out of the water, I find there is only the lioness carcass, the injured boy, and myself. The cowards had ran, leaving the boy behind to die. I expected them to abandon me. But they left him as well.
I run through the shallows to him, but he pulls away. I rinse off the blood from my face and approach him again. He realizes I’m here to help him and he reaches for me. His leg has two puncture wounds, but it looks like no major vessels were severed. Running, or even walking, is out of the question.
The vultures are already circling overhead. Still attuned to the land’s vibrations, I “look” around. The hyenas are coming straight towards us now. The vultures have alerted them to a fresh kill. Unfortunately, if I try to carry the boy straight back to the village, we will run directly into the hyenas.
I search for my dagger and thankfully, find it quickly in the settling water. I cut my skirt to make a quick bandage for the boy’s leg. Piggy backing him, I search the land for a direction that will lead us safely away. The returning vibrations tell me to head completely opposite the village. I’m not happy about it, but I’m in an anywhere but here situation.
In the distance, I hear the laughing yelps of the hyenas. If I’m close enough to hear them, they are close enough to smell the body. I follow the direction the vibrations lead me to. Every now and then, I make a disturbance on the ground, so we are easy to track by the villagers. Or rather, I hope we are easy to track.
Morning melts into noon. I have found a shady tree to allow the boy to sit and rest. I find I have learned more about this place than I had expected. I am able to find plant roots for him to chew on to keep up his energy and water levels. I come across healing herbs, that I sing into potency and apply as an antiseptic and antibiotic on his leg wounds. I sense no predators nearby, but I climb the shady tree for a better vantage point. It is then I realize, this is the acacia I collapsed against when I had escaped from the kidnappers. I remember the claw marks and note the lions only seem to climb so high. Humans, can climb higher in this tree.
Noon melts into late afternoon. The boy doesn’t know in which direction is the village. Any marks left by the villagers when they rescued me from this tree no longer exists. The area vibrations speak of roving lions off in the distance. I know the lions will come by here. I don’t see any other tree or sanctuary within reach. We have water for the night, and enough to chew on to keep us for another day. I grab the boy, and help him climb into the highest points of the tree. The strongest of my thongs are used to tie him into place, and to tie the water gourd and food pouch within reach.
Shortly after sunset, the lions find us. They have vibrational echoes of hyena encounters on them. I wonder if it is the same troop that took over the water hole. They circle and circle the tree. A few climb to the lower branches. The boy cries above me. Their hunger and curiosity emanate from their roars and huffs. I listen to the sounds they make, feel the vibrations they rumble. Listen, and learn. They look at us as prey and toy. I gather my strength and roar back at them. Vocally, I sound like a strangled kitten. But I have learned how to emanate vibrations with great strength and depth. The undercurrent rattles them. They jump away from the tree and decide to find something else to hunt for the night.
The boy cries himself to sleep. I know he wants to be held, but his branch won’t hold our combined weight. I tie myself to the branch, and settle into a half meditation, half asleep night. Sometime during the night, the land opens to me completely. The underlying vibrations and undercurrents of rock, plant, and animal become as legible to me as a road sign in daylight. I see where the village is, a bright beacon of human life. I see the lions in one direction, the hyenas in a different. Overland rivers, and untouchable water tables. Overhead, the stars pulse in a different vibrational level. I can’t touch their light, not yet. I can only lift my head and see they are there. Sometime in the early morning, sleep won the battle with meditation, and my mind finally rested completely.
In the morning, I thanked the tree for holding us up out of lion’s reach. And grumbled at my back for complaining for still being alive. My ability to detect vibrations has improved since the previous morning. I had no problem looking around my surroundings for predators or rescuers. I found neither.
But, I did know where the village was. I knew where water was. And I knew how to find enough food for us to survive the two day’s trek to the village. I gathered more healing herbs and hummed potency into the parts I had picked, thanks and blessings to the plants left behind. I noticed the boy was watching me very intently as I changed the dressing on his leg wounds. No sign of infection, the redness greatly reduced. As we set out for his home, he insisted on walking for a bit. I allowed him to hobble along just long enough to bandage his pride, then picked him up and carried him on my back. I found myself settling into a long stride with ease.
We were able to avoid predators. I found myself humming to the land often, and listening to the land in return. Surely the boy thought I was just being silly with my irregular songs and smiling for no viewable reason. In late afternoon, I called out to the land, asking which tree would be willing to hold us for shelter and protection for the night. The tree that answered was a ways away from the direct path to the village. But the tree spoke so clear, I could not refuse it. We climbed into the tree and tied ourselves down for the night.
Tied in the tree, far out of predator reach, I dreamed I was sitting in the sorcerer’s hut again. I was watching the moments that led up to the sex magic we shared. He apologized for calling me. He had called out into the lands for a new magic to come to him. He did not foresee my kidnapping. He was glad I escaped them, for that led me to the acacia I collapsed against. The humming I heard when first against the tree, was his call to me. In turn, he heard my humming reply, and traced it to find me collapsed and on the ground. He asked me to teach him. I told him he already knew. What could I teach him, who knew it better than me? What could I teach him, when he was using the new magic to speak to me, soul to soul? He said I had deeper lessons for him. He had lessons for me. We intertwined with each other, and body taught body while soul taught soul.
I awoke in the tree with a start. Dawn had not yet considered approaching. The words spoken in the dream quickly faded into mindless buzzing. The buzzing grew louder, and I saw in horror, I was completely covered in bees. Forcing myself to remain calm, I hummed to the bees in askance. I managed to tap into their collective vibration and lost myself in the knowledge of the hive. The night had been cold. Very cold. The boy and I were exposed in the branches. The bees were called to us, and completely covered us. Together, our collective body heat was enough to preserve boy and bees alike. Now the sun is rising, the swarm decided to begin foraging. They flew away from us before the boy woke up.
We climbed down, drank water, foraged for a bite or two before setting out. The boy walked a little more today before I placed him on my shoulders. I had no further fears of his leg developing an infection. I heard him humming while on my shoulders. “{You sing?}” He laughed. “{Woman-Boy sing good. Song make good grow. I sing song of Woman-Boy.}” I make ‘good grow’. I know my crude knowledge of his language destroyed all subtlety of his words. The landscape looks very familiar, I know we’ll be in the village before sunset.
“{What you sing?}” He is quiet at first. “{I sing Woman-Boy make strong legs. I sing Woman-Boy carry me home. I sing Mother not cry.}” He falls silent again. Then, quietly, he asks, “{Is good make song?}” I pat him on the arms. “{Yes. Boy song is good song. Boy sing with head and mouth.}” He hugs me tight with his arms, and begins humming in earnest. We rise to the crest of a small hill and I stop. He looks up, and sees the village in the late afternoon light.
He is so happy, he is bouncing on my shoulders and clapping his hands in glee. Instead of merely humming, he breaks out into wordless song. It feels good to be near someone so happy. I note how much stronger my legs feel despite carrying him for three days. I note I have carried him home. The only thing left is to bring him to his mother.
The sound of his singing has carried to the village. We are met halfway by the warriors and several of the women. The warriors are shouting in triumph at {Lion-Killer} bringing home the boy. They dance beside me, their words and gestures telling my story of the waterhole. The women try to drown out the men, singing instead of a goddess in the form of a woman, coming to protect their village. I prefer the men’s song.
Several offer to take the boy from my shoulders. I am reluctant, the boy absolutely refuses. {Woman-Boy carry me home. Woman-Boy say! Woman-Boy say!} The matriarch meets me at the gates to the village, which are closed for the night behind us. She looks at me with tears in her eyes. She is both disappointed and relieved. She turns from me without sound. The celebrating villagers close the hole she left behind. I carry the boy to the hut of his mother. She is standing at the entrance, her eyes and face soaked in tears. Her hair is shaved. She has been mourning. She stands in defiance of the celebration. I can understand. Many saw the lion attack and grip her son. Who could survive such a thing. She will not be moved until she holds her own son with her own hands.
Many hands offer to lift him off my shoulders. But I feel I can not allow them to. I kneel carefully in front of his mother, placing him at arm’s reach to her. “{Mother! Woman-Boy carry me home! Mother! I am home!}” She lifts her son off of my shoulders. Slowly she checks him over. She sees the lion’s wound on the boy’s leg. She clucks about his thinness. She finally accepts and almost collapses into happy, choking tears.
Her tears disturb him. He wipes her tears away and tells her he learned a new song. Would she please listen to his song? She nods, and he breaks into the wordless warble I had quickly grown accustomed to. As he does, I listen intently, and feel him singing vibrations, much like I would have. He has learned the magic of Song in the three days he spent with me. And he has learned it well. I know he is singing to raise his mother’s heart. He doesn’t want her to cry. But he sings with the simplicity of a child. This song requires the understanding of an adult.
Quietly, gently, I raise my own voice, and harmonize with him. I support his voice and tone with my own, and falling easily into the vibrations he has set in motion, add to his song the bittersweet knowledge of maturity. Our song causes all in the village to become silent and listen. His mother studies his face with rapt attention. Soul speaks to soul, and she understands why her son sings, why he doesn’t want her to cry. And she is proud of him.
The weariness of a thousand years sinks into me. I realize his song had been keeping me upright after all. I stumble towards the matriarch’s hut, where I had been told to bed down every night. The sorcerer catches my arm, however. “{Boy sleep with Mother. Man sleep with Man.}” I’m too tired to argue. He leads me to his hut, where I find my few personal items have been brought. I mumble in English at him, “Alright, but no sex. I wanna remember next time.” His laughter chases me to the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
I wake to the sounds of verbal discipline. Some poor kid is catching hell today. I turn over, noting I’m not in a tree. It is then I understand the petulant boy is being chastised for singing. Singing? I bolt off the the straw mat, dashing outside, barely registering I have been groomed in my sleep, yet again. The sorcerer has cornered the boy I rescued, and is threatening all sorts of godly (and ungodly) wrath.
“{What this! What this!}” I jump into the argument. The boy sees me and bursts into tears. I grab him by the ear. “{What. This?}” He swallows tears and pride and says slowly, “{Singing-Boy sing Running-Boy hurt leg more than Singing-Boy hurt.}”. It takes a few minutes for me to break down the words into something I can understand. When it does, my face contorts with rage. I think I know who this “Running-Boy” refers to. And while I think him a coward, I do not agree with wishing revenge on him. I stand up slowly, noting the village has surrounded us, to see what I am going to do.
“{Singing-Boy make bad song. Running-Boy hurt? Yes. No.}” ~shrugs~ “{Singing-Boy bad song make bad things come from No-Light-Place.}” The boy’s eyes widened as much as humanly possible. He clutches at my fresh manly skirt. “{Singing-Boy not want! Not want! Lion-Song tell Singing-Boy! Tell!}” Wait… “{Lion-Song}”? Is that my new name now?
I turn to the sorcerer. “{Cut Singing-Boy mouth. No more song. Lion-Song sing only.}” The sorcerer nods in agreement. He grabs the boy, who is now screaming. “{Singing-Boy make new song. Sing bad things not come!}” I shake my head and make a cutting motion with my thumb. “{Singing-Boy make new song. Sing Running-Boy not hurt. Sing Running-Boy have strong legs like Lion-Song!}”
The sorcerer pauses. He looks at me with a parental smirk. I glare at the boy. “{And?}”
The boy’s face shows he is beginning to understand the responsibilities of what he has learned. He stops struggling against the sorcerer. “{Singing-Boy watch Lion-Song. Singing-Boy learn good songs from Lion-Song. Singing-Boy be Lion-Song.}” Damn this basic knowledge of their language. The subtleties again flee from me. I’m hoping I have enough of an understanding of the boy’s words.
“{Lion-Song blind here. Lion-Song have broken hands here. Singing-Boy learn good songs from Laughing-Man.}” The sorcerer looks at me and chuckles at the name I have given him. I shrug. “{Laughing-Man, laughs. Much.}” He breaks into hard laughter. The boy nervously laughs along with him. The sorcerer waits until the boy has surrendered to laughter before snatching him by his hair. “{Singing-Boy go sing good song to Running-Boy. Now.}” The boy pales. The sorcerer releases him and the boy hobbles off to find the coward.
I finally get a chance to examine myself. I am dressed in a man’s garb, from head to foot. Sometime after falling asleep in the sorcerer’s hut, I was washed, dressed in clean clothes, and groomed. The sorcerer motions for me to follow him, and we enter his hut.
He pours water into a bowl and offers it to me. “{Seeds?}” He laughs. “{No. No seeds.}” We both chuckle and share the bowl of water. He waits until I am at ease, then quietly starts humming. I listen for a while, feeling the vibrations he is emanating. Then I join my voice to his and we hum in seemingly random harmony. Soul speaks to soul and we are taken from the Waking, into a shared Dreaming.
“You have taught me a magic I always had, but never knew. And you have taught another. Now the magic will be taught to further generations.” His Dreaming body is the form of a dust-devil, a swirling contortion of air. “Soon, you will be leaving to return to your world.”
“If this is what I ‘taught’ you, what did you ‘teach’ me?” My Dreaming body keeps changing, shifting into anthropomorphic shapes ranging from Waking creatures to mythological fantasies. I will myself into a form that compliments his dust-devil, a large winged bird slowly circling him.
“I taught you, the same as you taught me. Something you have always had, but never knew.”
“The boy must learn your ways.”
“He will. You must not forget what happened here.”
“I won’t. Um… {Lion-Song}?”
His laughter kinks his form into impossible knots. “No, not ‘Lion-Song’. ‘Roars with Lion’s Soul’.”
I soar through a loop made by his laughter. “Oh, that makes sense. I think.”
His loops increase until I’m soaring through a tunnel made completely of his form. “They see you as a man now. A man you will remain until your world comes for you.” The tunnel collapses on me, and I am swallowed by darkness.
I open my eyes, I am kneeling in the sorcerer’s hut. I look at him sitting crosslegged before me, his eyes half closed in deep trance. I wait for him to return as well before pouring water for him. He takes the bowl, drinks, and shares it with me.
The days again return to ebb and flow. I get a clue that I am dreaming, when the moon cycles from full to new to full again, yet I have had no menstrual cycle. The sorcerer says it is because I went through a man’s initiation instead of a woman’s. Singing-Boy and I harmonize often in public. No one else in the village has been able to sing magically as we have, with the exception of the sorcerer. Singing-Boy learns how to encourage healing in human and animals with his songs, how to chase away nightmares, how to encourage plants to grow. From the sorcerer, he learns the ethics and morals that come with this knowledge. It is soon evident Singing-Boy is the sorcerer’s apprentice.
The sorcerer sings as well, but he does not require an audible component for his vibrations. Together, he and I take long walks through the brush, vibrating to each other and the land. Teaching me a skill I always had but never knew.
My language skills with the village increases, and my knowledge of English decreases. I still have my American fleshiness, but the muscles are toned underneath. Visitors from other villages come through. They have heard of the Woman-Become-Man that can sing prey to stand still and predators to flee in terror. They have heard of the Dead Boy that came back because of the magic songs. Some bring offerings and requests for help. Most come to see the legend for themselves. A few offer to buy me from the village, offers of marriage. One village demands I be handed over. Our village has two singers, we can spare one.
The sorcerer, Singing-Boy, and I feel the coming confrontation. The day of, we call all the warriors to remain within the village. That night, they come with torches and yells. They plan to raid the village and drag Singing-Boy or myself, or both away. The raiders are initially held back by the thorn bush fences, but they set fire to them. The sorcerer summons a series of windgusts that tumble the thorn bushes and puts out the fires. A few raiders sneak in, but are quickly dispatched by the village men.
A loud bang shatters the night. It is a sound I am intimately familiar with, but it escapes me at first. One of the penned goats jerks and falls over dead, blood and brains pouring from a sudden hole in it’s head.
“{We have magic, too! Give over the woman AND the boy, and we will spare you our death magic!}” Some women grab me and try to push me towards the gate. They are stopped by the other villagers. The sorcerer comes to me. “{You know this magic?}”
I blink several times. Then understand. “{This is magic from my world. It isn’t really magic. And I’m going to put a stop to it. Do not sing with me.}” I lift my voice in a harsh high scream. As I hoped, I felt the gunman’s attention focus on me. I know where he is, and I know what he is using. A single action bolt rifle. A relic from World War II. And it infuriates me. I shift my tone from a pure seeking to a discordant jarring shriek. I’m not targeting the gunman. I’m targeting the rifle itself. The gunman can tolerate my banshee voice no longer, he prepares to fire a round, smiles as I stand so still for him, and pleasantly squeezes the trigger.
The rifle has subtly twisted in his hands. The misfire destroys his right hand and severely injures his face. I feel the vibrations surrounding the village and find no other firearms. “{The -gun- is destroyed, it will not be remade tonight. Do as you please with the others.}” The sorcerer gives the order to the warriors. He uses all the forces at his disposal to encourage, strengthen and embolden our men. Singing-Boy leads the women in a chant that he uses to make the ground stable for us, unstable for the raiders. I leap into the physical fray myself, assisting with physically stopping the attack while humming a weakening vibration against the raiders.
The attack is over before dawn. Those raiders still living have ran away into the night. Those that died were dragged away from the village, for the hyenas to devour. The presence of the rifle still jars me. “{Lion-Song, this… -gun-… you say it is not magic… but…}” I look down at Singing-Boy. He will always have a limp, he will not be allowed to take the man’s initiation. “{No, it is not magic. The thinkers of my world, they have learned how to make fire and metal do things that look very much like magic, but isn’t.}”
I pat him on the head. “{Those thieves have pieces of my world. I expect to see men of my world soon. They will appear to be very stupid and very ignorant.}” Singing-Boy clings to me. “{You can stay! The village sees you like my older brother now! No one notices you have breasts anymore!}” I double over in laughter, he looks at me oddly while the adults around us quietly turn and chuckle.
~~
When people come to visit, we now tell them the legend of the Singing Woman is a great myth. A story told to entertain children. The men take turns embellishing and twisting the history, making it appear as a old man’s dream. The people coming to see the Singing Woman dwindle until only those that care for old stories are the only ones that come by. And even those consider the events to be pure fabrication.
~~
I had gone for a trip to the two trees that gave us shelter and safety. I came alone as is my habit. I spend the night in their branches, one night at one tree, another night at the other. Up in the branches, I feel most like myself, and least like this strange woman-become-man that I was. I was returning from my three day trip when I saw a strange contraption by the fence of the village. It looked like a large tent on the back of a metal monster. But where there should be legs, the monster had wheels. It was only when I saw the license plate did I recognize it as a truck.
Entering the village, I felt a strange mix of vibrations. There was fear and concern and anger and elation and broken hearts and confirmed hope. I wrapped my mark of manhood, my red cloak, tight around my shoulders. This hid my unsheathed knife from others’ sight. I heard a name, an English name. I looked around for the name’s owner. A pale skinned man, the color of sun-bleached hide, came from the central clearing straight for me. He stopped when I revealed my naked blade.
“Keri! Kerian Nox! It really is you!” The words were discordant and sharp on my ear. The man’s face fell. “It has only been four months. Do… Do you remember your language?” Three other people joined him. These four people were from four different tribes. But they were all clothed the same. A tall woman stepped forward. “Don’t you remember us? You helped us before. We’re here to rescue you! To take you home!”
It takes a while, but the memories come back. First of my native tongue. Then of the things I have done. Yes, I have helped these four. I helped them honor a god once. Stone piles and harsh drinks. Mongrel dogs and bright eyes. They come from a world with larger rifles, and cars, and air conditioning, and sushi. Yes, I know them. And I know who I am again.
I feel a hand grabbing at my cloak. I turn and face Singing-Boy. “{They have come to take you away now.}” He has already resolved himself to this. “{I will miss my older brother.}” I sheath my dagger, and remove it from my belt. I tie the dagger to his belt. “{I know you will not be allowed to take the man’s initiation. But there is more than one way to be a man. You see my example.}” He smiles grimly and nods. I wander through the village, saying my goodbyes to those who have become family to me. I go to the matriarch second to last. She has not smiled nicely upon me since the day I returned to the village with Singing-Boy.
“{You get your way. I’m leaving.}” I bow and turn. I hear her whisper behind me, “{I never wanted you to leave. I wanted you to be the woman you were born to be.}”
I go to the sorcerer’s hut. He is standing in the doorway. I strip down to shirt and kilt. I move all hard objects outside of my arm’s reach. I sit on the ground and cheerfully tell him, “{I’m ready. Do it.}”.
“{Do what?}” He is chuckling.
“{Banish me. Send me away. Destroy me. However you want. But do it. I’m ready to return to my world.}”
“{Your people are here to take you away. They have a not-magic thing to carry you away from my world and back to yours.}” He gestures to the four standing behind me and the truck outside the fence.
My turn to laugh deeply and thoroughly. “{I’M DREAMING THIS PLACE! I’m in my bed in the Waking. You brought me here. But I can’t leave unless you completely let go of me. If I leave with those four, I’ll still have a piece here. I have to leave the way I came. I was summoned to this place, and now I must be released from this place.}” There are shocked murmurs behind me.
“{And how did I summon you?}” I can’t tell if he is a man of this world, or a god of this world. But despite the continual chuckling, I know who he is NOT.
“{With magic I came to teach you with.}”
“{So how do I release you?}”
“{By breaking what you put together.}”
He starts chuckling. With each heave, my skin starts to itch. His chuckling deepens into a guffaw, the vibrations of which assaults my bones and joints threatening to undo them. The guffaw expands to great deep laughter, which overwhelms me and throws me to the ground. I am blown out of myself. I stand behind my body and watch as the sorcerer raises his hand for one great knee-slapper.
He strikes the ground with a great and final sound. HA!
~~~~
I wake with a jerk in my bed. The cool room envelops me and encourages me to be lazy under the covers for a while longer yet. I realize I have had the African savanna dream again, but it did not end with me adjusting to a new life in the distant village. This time, it continues. I then remember the boy, the lion attack, the three days of surviving in the wild, the bittersweet reunion, the assault, and finally the moment when I realize I’m dreaming and at the mercy of the master of the dream.
Normally I shrug off the African savanna dream, but this expanded version would not leave me alone. It demanded to be written, and written it has been.
An interesting note… I have been banished… with laughter.
Make of that, what you may.