Kalik (20 page)

There was the time Kalik flung all his men in attack. Tepulka and I fired over the parapet, dropped, and Paku and Tulu stood and fired. Tepulka and I stood and fired again. Bobbing up and down, we confused and picked them off.

We had dressed our bowstrings with oil boiled out of goat and sheep feet. The strings stayed tight when it rained that day, and our attackers’ arrows began to fall short. Even so, Tulu was grazed by a half-spent arrow.

The gorge already stank. Now we counted eight more dead. Puli and Kimi spotted three attackers trying to climb down the walls, and Tama and I ran up. It was like target-shooting. We sank those three in The Ooze as well.

Wordless, Paku showed me the arrow that had wounded Tulu. Its tip dipped in some filth, a dark blur – not her blood – dried on the point. Even though she cried and fainted, I scrubbed out the cut in Tulu’s shoulder, forcing it to bleed freely. I sucked and sucked the wound, spitting out the blood, and put on my strongest ointment. Paku collected all the attackers’ arrows with their poisoned tips and kept them separate.

We had eaten the fresh meat. The dried meat. The smoked fish. The green leaves and roots. Now we killed the last wild goats.

Our Animals had eaten all the grass. We chopped down leafy branches to feed them. “Be patient,” I said. “We will outlast Kalik.”

His men had always rolled down rocks. Now, when they pitched down rotten carcasses of goats and deer, we flung them in The Ooze. It was a dreadful yellow, bubbling with evil-smelling gas.

Then Tama complained the donkeys wouldn’t drink from the creek. “They sniffed and struck it, splash! splash! with their hoofs.”

“Kalik’s poisoned it,” I said. “Lucky we’ve got the spring. But we’ll have to carry water for the Animals.” It became a daily task, filling and carrying our biggest cooking pots.

The Animals got thinner. Our tame goats lost their milk. The Children looked gaunt. At least Tulu’s graze healed. Still we saw smoke from down the gorge. Still the Carny’s shadow capered across the great rock bulge each night. Dancing with a child. Wearing us down. Despite Tama’s tears, I killed one of our goats. Then a ram. When I killed Gobble and Hurry, he would not eat their meat.

One night Tulu hissed and pointed high above. In the dark, on long ropes, five men lowered themselves while Kalik thought we were distracted by the Carny’s shadow. “Save your arrows!” I ordered. One by one the warriors came to the end of their ropes, fell with a sullen plop, screams swallowed in The Ooze.

Tupu’s cheeks burned red. She began to cough. I mixed tonics but knew she needed better food and air. Tama was silent. Puli sat inactive, the spindle lifeless in her hands. Kimi and Hurk were still noisy, playing a game they called Prisoners in the Gully.

Maka spoke to no one, not even Tepulka. I knew there was something she had not told me. She disappeared while on watch at the parapet with Tulu one night. We searched the gully, called her name. Tepulka saw me look at The Ooze.

“Maka has joined Kalik,” he said. “She thought if she gave herself to him, he would let the rest of us go.”

I stared at Tepulka. He said, “She thought Kalik followed us because of her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you came to the Headland, Kalik raped Maka. He came back and raped her, again and again. She had a child.”

“The baby at the Roundhouse?”

Tepulka nodded. “She had to carry it there so Lutha could display it. Lutha did that with any baby who was going to become one of the Maidens. She took away Maka’s baby.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Only that Maka’s mother was a witch. She taught Maka some of her powers.”

“What sort of powers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you go after her,” I told Tepulka. “Kalik would kill you, and that wouldn’t do Maka any good. How many of them have we killed?”

There were the first three we killed in the gorge. The one who fell at the top of the gully. The ones who fell in The Ooze. Those we killed in the last battle. If there had been
twenty-three
, as well as Kalik, there must be about five left alive. And some of them might have been wounded with their own poisoned arrows, the ones Paku had shot back. So Kalik might only have one or two men left. But how were we to be sure? Smoke still rose from their camp-fire. Arrows clinked on the parapet. Rocks fell.

If we could only be patient, we must win, I kept telling the Children. But now Kalik had Maka, I felt desperate myself.

The night after Maka disappeared, there was enough moonlight to see the Carny’s shadow dance and grovel across the rock bulge. But a second shadow followed his, carrying something. I saw it, knew whose shadow it was, and took Tepulka down to the parapet . I left him on guard with Paku to keep an eye on him. From there, he could not see the evil shadows.

The Carny’s obscene hands began by fluttering and fingering Maka’s shadow. It was like the time in the snow-house in Arku’s village, when the Carny undid the chain, stripped off the Child’s heavy tunic, and made it dance half-naked.

As I watched, I heard the snick of a hook being undone. Maka’s shadow jerked like a puppet controlled by the fluttering hands of the Carny. When the obscene performance finished,
the Carny chained Maka to his waist again. It was too far but again I thought I heard the hook’s iron snick. The Carny’s shadow limped back across the rock-face one last time. And Maka’s shadow crawled after, the chain’s shadow swaying between them. Her shadow mimicking his. Every step, every gesture of his revolting hands, Maka’s copying his.

Night after night it happened again. And, ever so slowly, it changed. The Carny still led but his gestures sometimes seemed to be following Maka’s. As if little by little she was taking control of him. I said so to Tepulka.

He was haggard. I had tried to protect him but could not hide the awful shadow dance. “So that’s what she is doing,” he said. Tulu came over and took his hand.

“Maka is using her mother’s witchcraft, getting control of Kalik,” she said.

Again the Carny’s eerie shadow moved across the rock-face. Again Maka’s followed. Although we could see each detail of their shadows, we could see nothing of Maka and Kalik themselves on top of the high bluff opposite. And that night, every step the Carny took, every repulsive movement of his hands and fingers began from Maka. His gestures now copying hers. Even though she walked behind, out of his sight.

He undid the hook, released the chain so she danced, and he danced; she swung backwards, he swung backwards; her hands wove in a curtain of movement, restless, and his wove an identical curtain. And lastly, as their shadows turned and retraced their journey across the rock-face, Maka’s stooped, picked up the chain, and took several steps which the Carny’s shadow copied. Maka’s shadow dropped the chain, we saw it fall. Her shadow tripped, fell forward, hands flung out. And like a mirror the Carny’s shadow tripped. Forward it fell. Over the lip of the high precipice. There was a high, distant scream. And Kalik came falling, a torch burning in his hand like a shooting star.

So long it took for him to fall, I hear his scream descending
still. The gulp of The Ooze. He disappeared and came up, a rounded heave on the gaseous toil of muck. And it was Kalik’s face, not the Carny’s, I saw beneath the slime. The roll of his eyes, their whites’ flash against the coating of filth. On the bank above him, Kitimah, Tulu, and Puli danced, lifting their tunics, exposing themselves to his dying gaze, leaping, exulting.

He fought, brought his body up to lie full length upon that rancid surface. Shivering he sank until only his head was clear. The glare faded from Kalik’s eyes. Imperceptibly, it became that other loathsome face. A last scream, a painful swallow. The mouth submerged, the eyes hooded, the head snaked out of sight. The Children clustered around me shrieking as a hand rose from the filth, grasped at air. I tore Lutha’s silver bow from around my neck. Flung, its silver chain shone like a trickle of water across the clutching fingers, and The Ooze dragged both hand and chain out of sight like an evil thought.

Tepulka climbed the parapet, slipped down from one boulder to another, Paku and I calling him back, trying to catch up. But only two wounded warriors lay dying of their own arrow poison at the foot of the rockfall. As we ended their agony, Tepulka was already climbing the bluff.

We broke down the parapet, levered rocks aside, got everyone down, our gear, the Animals. And all the time, the stench of The Ooze filled our nostrils.

In the river’s clear water we bathed, scrubbed down the Animals and everything we owned. The Animals grazed and recovered as we ate fresh fish.

Each day I took Hika and Bok, and waited for some sign of Tepulka and Maka. The third morning, I heard pebbles falling. I helped them down the last difficult part. Tepulka and I passed Maka between us. She weighed as little as a child. Wordless, Tepulka turned and climbed the bluff again.

I flung away the indecent rags Maka wore, examined her all over, smelled and listened to the workings of her body as the Shaman had taught me, but could find no physical illness,
just the terrible effects of what she had done to rid us of Kalik’s unclean spirit. She hunched like an old crone. Face lined and withered. Eyes colourless, skin livid. I washed and dressed her in clean clothes.

When Tepulka climbed down with the child slung upon his back, we lifted Maka on to Hika. I helped Tepulka on to Bok. They rode side by side, Tepulka supporting Maka. I carried the child as Hika and Bok picked their way down.

Crooning, comforting, Tulu and Kitimah took Maka. That night, the Children slept in a great sprawl with her in their middle. When she began to recover, we travelled on. Maka still said nothing, bent like a little old woman. But she seemed content so long as someone – especially Tepulka – was near, touching her.

One day, as I walked beside Hika, Maka leaned down and croaked, “This morning I saw Kimi and Hurk playing a game of shadows.”

I looked up.

“Yes,” she said. “They called their game The Kalik and The Carny.” And she cried and slipped off Hika’s back.

We camped there. When we moved on again, Maka walked beside Tepulka. It took a long time, but she was getting better. Her skin began to clear, her eyes to brighten. Her lank hair came back to life. Slowly.

Tupu still coughed, but something of the hectic red went from her cheeks. I made up the herbal drink that lowered her fever, and put her on Hika. Tama led the Animals with Tag and Bar. He was talking to me again. Arak and Perrah smiled and babbled from their basket on top of Bok. Tulu and Paku walked together.

Once when Maka wrinkled her nose at some tonic I was giving her, herbs seethed in milk, I said, “You’re much better. But I want to see you your old self.”

“I can never be like that again.”

“A broken arm that heals well is sometimes stronger than
the old arm.”

Maka nodded, smiled, and turned to Tepulka. That day she asked for her daughter.

Earlier, Tepulka had put the child into her arms, but Maka had shown no reaction, had not even tried to hold it. Tepulka understood. “It’s not safe with her,” he said. “Not yet.” And he carried it away. Now Maka took and held her child close. I thought of my time learning from the Shaman. And again I heard his voice quoting, “If the mind be not satisfied, the body can never be cured.”

Sometimes we sang as we travelled. Sometimes we talked of what we must do when we found our place: grow a crop of potatoes, plant our winter wheat, store food and herbs. Clip the wool and hair from the sheep and goats. Weave for another trip to the Cold Hills. And learn to read and write. The Children liked talking about that most of all. I even began to think of my old dream of planting trees, working north, winning back land from the desert, taming the sun.

Puli sewed cloth and stuffed it with wool to look like a baby’s body, arms and legs. Tepulka carved the wooden baby’s head, feet, and hands. He drilled holes, fastened it together. He painted the face, took the hair he had saved, and glued it on the head. Together, he and Puli gave the doll to Kimi. She carried it all day, singing to it, feeding it, copying everything Kitimah did with Arak and Perrah. She called her doll Chakah.

It was about that time I became certain my plan was working. Some day Paku would become their leader. Puli their storyteller. Tepulka their healer. The babies would grow up – Maka’s daughter was already walking.

When we found the mounds of sloppy dung, the large tracks, we sniffed the air, and I remembered Taur’s cows and described them to the Children. Tama said nothing, but I saw him smile at the thought of catching some calves, adding them to his Animals.

One golden morning we climbed a green heave on the valley floor and stood side by side, looking. Above us, closing off the southern sky, the row of mountains we had travelled towards so long: their black rock ribboned with snow, tussock basins pranked white. And filling the valley beneath our feet, spreading
and disappearing to left and right, Lake Tip, its level blue.

With Hurk, Kimi ran after Tupu. Tepulka, Maka, and the little girl they had named Tara. Paku and Tulu. Kitimah carrying Arak and Perrah. Puli and Tama. “Thirteen,” I murmured. They knelt before the water, bowed their heads to it as if worshipping. And I followed the Animals down.

Jack Lasenby was born in Waharoa, New Zealand in 1931. During the 1950s he was a deer-culler and possum trapper in the Urewera Country. He is a former school teacher, lecturer in English at the Wellington Teachers’ College, and editor of New Zealand’s
School Journal
.

Jack Lasenby held the Sargeson Fellowship in 1991, the Writer’s Fellowship at the Victoria University of Wellington in 1993, and was the Writer in Residence at the Dunedin College of Education in 1995. He is the author of many novels for children and young adults, including award-winning books
The Lake, The Conjuror, The Waterfall
and
The Battle of Pook Island
. He has been the recipient of New Zealand’s most prestigious children’s fiction awards: the Esther Glen Medal, the Aim Children’s Book Award, and the NZ Post Children’s Book Award.

Kalik
is the fourth and final title in the ‘Travellers Quartet’. The first,
Because We Were the Travellers
, received an Honour Award in the 1998 NZ Post Children’s Book Awards.
Taur
, the second, won the senior fiction category of the same awards in 1999, and
The Shaman and the Droll
, the third title, was a finalist for the awards in 2000.

Jack Lasenby lives in Wellington and is presently working on his ‘Aunt Effie’ series as well as another book about the ever popular ‘Harry Wakatipu’.