Ulug brushed
the patch of ground before him clear of twigs and fallen leaves. He
then opened the leather pouch at his waist and took out the grains.
Ceremonially, one by one, he laid out seven in a row on the cleared
patch of earth, in a rough semicircle. Seven was the mystical number. He
placed a single grain in the approximate centre of the semicircle. Slowly, grunting slightly with the effort, he squatted down to wait.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
He
was stripped to the waist, and his skin was coloured with blue and
yellow dye to signify his status as the tribe’s bard. Not for him the
red of the warrior or the black of the shaman: he was bard, singer,
keeper of the tribal lore. He – and he alone – had the right to the blue
and yellow.
He
took his pipe from where he had tucked it into his waistband next to
the pouch and began playing on it, softly. He ran his fingers along the
shaft, and the pipe made its tunes, rising and falling softly, plaintive
and happy by turns. He did not have to wait long.
The
bird came down, as he had known it would, in a flurry of feathers and
perched on the branch above. It was small and dark grey with a white
breast, and as it raised and lowered its sharp little beak it began to
echo the pipe, up and down the scale, till it was leading the song and
the pipe followed.
Ulug
glanced up at the bird as he played. One-handed, careful not to scatter
the semicircle of grain, he lay down a line of ten more grains, closing
the open end of the semicircle. He slowly lowered his pipe and began to
speak.
“Bird,”
he said, formally, in the spirit language, not the language of everyday
speech. “I follow your song. I acknowledge you to be my master. Your
music rules mine. Your spirit rules mine. I salute you and bring you
tribute.” He scattered some of the rest of the grain on the ground
before him, lightly. The bird was used to this. Every day for the last
moon Ulug had done this. The bird had long since lost all fear of him.
It
came down then from the branch, and bent its head to peck. Ulug threw
down the last of the grain in front of him and waited, head bowed with
reverence, as the bird, pecking, came before him. It bent its head
again.
Ulug’s
hand flashed out then, so quickly the bird had no chance to react,
grabbing the feathered form in his large fist, crushing down, turning
the warm beating body into a shattered pulp of bone and feather. With
the third thing he had in his belt, the little knife, he cut open the
bird and took out its heart, which was still trembling slightly, and
swallowed it whole.
“I
have honoured you, bird,” he said, formally. “Your spirit is in mine.
There can be no greater honour I can bestow on you. And I thank you for
the sacrifice you made.”
He
clambered slowly to his aging feet and went down to the village. There
was to be a feast tonight, and his music would be needed.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2008
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