Outlaw (21 page)

“Insanity. Always insanity.
Jika, jika, jawa
. Madman coming.”

“
Jika, jika, jawa
. Madman coming.” Shaka turned from the cliff. “The time has come.” He strode toward the tree line thirty paces distant. A tangle of vines and thick moss was draped from heavy branches that blocked the fading sun’s light from reaching the muddy trail beneath.

“It’s time for you to see.”

See what, Stephen did not ask, nor did he care to. His trust in Shaka had been forged over many years. Whatever his teacher wanted him to see or learn, he simply would, in its right time.

IT WAS dark when they broke from the trees and approached the clearing in which they’d constructed their three huts—one for cooking, one for sleeping, one for individual reflection if the training called for it.

It was in this third hut, which was built high on stilts, that Stephen had learned to be perfectly still for hours, sometimes days, searching the deepest parts of his mind. And then going beyond his thoughts to the place where the mind had to be stilled to truly
know
.

He was now twenty, Shaka said. He could recall being sequestered in the tall hut through the night at age six, feeling alone until that great warmth came to his soul and assured him that he was not alone. Rather he was in a world of light and color, oddly one with it, as if he himself were made of the same fabric as the light.

It was then, only after Stephen had informed Shaka of his experience, that his teacher had begun his bodily training, because unless one was connected with his true self, all else was futile, he said.

Stephen could not remember the last time he’d truly felt alone. Even when Shaka headed into the mountains, often for days at a time, Stephen felt no loss. The darkness offered him no threat, nor did anything.

He remembered the words of his teacher when he was only seven or eight years old:

“How big is God, Stephen?”

“As big as a bull,” he’d cried, citing the beasts Shaka had told him about

“A bull. Fine, let’s make him a bull. Can this bull be threatened by any other?”

“No, he’s far too powerful.”

“And evil…If we say that God is a big bull, how big is evil? What animal should we make evil?”

Stephen had considered this question for a moment.

“Like a mouse.”

“Can this mouse threaten the bull?”

“He could bite it on the leg.”

“And make the bull snort away in pain?” Shaka asked, brow raised.

Again Stephen had gone deeply into consideration for a solution, because he knew that God could not fear any threat.

“Then we must make the bull bigger,” he said.

“How big?” Shaka asked.

“As big as the jungle. Then this mouse wouldn’t threaten him.”

“Why don’t we make the bull as big as the sea?” Shaka asked.

“Yes! The sea!” Stephen had cried, thrusting both fists into the air.

Shaka had laughed, joining his delight.

“As big as the world!” his teacher said.

“The whole world. Then the bull would not even feel the mouse if it bit him on his leg.”

Shaka had nodded. “The truth, my son, is that you still make your idea of God far too small. He is as big as the sun. As a thousand suns. As the universe. And this is only his mouth, which speaks all that is into existence.”

Stephen had stared up into his teacher’s eyes, lost in wonder.

“And the mouse?” Shaka asked.

“Is still only a mouse,” Stephen said.

“And that mouse is like a speck that cannot threaten, nor harm, nor even disturb such a bull.”

Shaka had looked into the fire with glassy eyes, and Stephen thought he could see the sun in them.

“The people of this world make a god for themselves in their own image, and in doing so they make God far, far, far too small. His power is infinite. Evil is finite. Finite to infinite is like a speck of sand to a billion suns. This is your Father. You are his. In him, you cannot be threatened or harmed or disturbed. Your costume alone holds the illusion that such harm is possible and so it screams.”

The truth of this had stayed with Stephen through many dark nights.

They subsisted mostly on fruits and vegetables taken from the jungle, small game, and boars. Occasionally crocodile meat and fish, but only when they headed south to the swamps, where Shaka first told Stephen about what it meant to be a Water Walker and then guided him in becoming one. By this he meant the art of forgiving. Of letting go.

Shaka dipped beneath the overhang of the cooking hut’s grass roof and led Stephen into the small round room, lit by only glowing embers in the shallow pit at the center. Without a word he placed several large splinters of wood on the dying ash and gently coaxed the hot coals to life. The embers sprouted flame, fed on the fuel, and lapped hungrily for more wood, which Shaka supplied.

Stephen squatted across from him, arms on his knees.

Shaka looked up at him. “When two glowing logs are placed together?”

“They produce a greater fire than either alone.”

“The nature of this fire?”

“Depending on the nature of the logs, love or hate,” Stephen said.

Shaka nodded. He stood and crossed to the wall. Reaching up, he removed a small bundle wedged under the eaves. Stephen had never seen it before. This also was the common way of Shaka.

“You are that log, Stephen. I have been the second log. With me you have learned to burn bright. Now the time comes for you to join others whose fire is burned out or covered up.”

So then he was going to the valley. His pulse quickened with curiosity.

“I will meet a woman?”

Shaka’s eyebrow arched. “You will. Two. One to lead you in, one to lead you out. I trust both will be your salvation.”

“What need is there for salvation when I am saved already?”

“You are saved tonight. When the winds blow strong, you may find yourself in need.”

Shaka settled to the ground and began to unwrap the bundle.

“What did I tell you of your birth?”

“That I was born in a place where many have the color of my skin. I was taken from the sea and traded. You have raised me as your own son.”

Shaka withdrew a black, hide-covered book like others he’d used to teach Stephen the art of reading.

“And your mother?”

“My mother? Her fate is unknown.”

“Unknown, yes. But I have reason to believe that she’s still alive.”

The revelation was interesting. His mother, alive. But it sparked no great concern on his part.

“What does he think about this?” Shaka asked, eyeing him.

“He thinks that if she’s alive, he could meet her one day. He is her son. But my true self knows that this is only a costume I put on. All are my mother, all are my brother. I am the son only of the One inside of me.”

“True. I have decided that you are ready to face the crucible of the insanity in the valley where I last saw your mother. In which I believe she may still live.”

“Which valley?”

“The Tulim valley.”

So close? He’d never set foot in the valley nor seen the Tulim up close, and the thought of doing so once again quickened his pulse. Perhaps he would meet a woman. Such a curiosity. It would be a delight, he was sure of it.

“Your mother wrote in this book for you, so that you might know.” He laid an open palm on the cover. “The time has come for you to see into her heart and know how you came into my hands through her doing.”

Stephen stared at the book, unsure what to think.

“It is a thick book.”

“I want you to read it.”

“Then I will. When?”

“Tonight.”

Stephen blinked. “The whole book?”

Shaka handed the book over and Stephen took it with both hands.

“All of it. Tonight. Read by the fire until you have read the last page.”

Shaka stood and walked to the door. “There’s plenty of wood to last the night. I will return in the morning.”

“Yes, Shaka.”

He turned at the door. “Every word, Stephen.”

“Every word.”

Then his teacher left the hut, leaving Stephen with the fire and his mother’s book.

He peeled back the cover, tilted the first page so that he could clearly see the words by the flame light, and began to read.

THE CRICKET song had long fallen away; the fire had consumed most of the wood through the night; sleep had not called to him as Stephen read the handwritten account marked by his mother on the pages Shaka had given him. His fascination grew with each page. He was reading about a world as unfamiliar to him as sight to the blind.

Not because the writings of the jungle and its ways were new to him. He knew them as well as he knew his own breathing. New to him, however, was a world in which great importance was given to the roles of mother and son and lover and ruler and servant. All costumes. The wearing of flesh which, when mistaken for the real self, became a person’s identity and inflamed insanity.

And yet he himself had been born into such a world, far from the jungle in a land called Atlanta. Born to a woman whose identity as his mother had consumed her to the exclusion of her true self and driven her insane. In these last pages she was seeing the light, and for that he was glad.

The others—this Kirutu and this Wilam and all those who fought to protect their own costumes—were not seeing so clearly. They continued to live in suffering, captive in the hell of their own insanity.

Why had no one told them the truth? Why had Shaka not simply stood on that hill and told them that they could be free by turning on the lamps of their inner being and looking to the Master, who had come to open the eyes of the blind and set the captives free?

But he knew already—only those with ears to hear and eyes to see would hear and see.

Stephen had been taken by Shaka for this? To open their eyes?

Julian, the one who’d given him birth, had joined with Wilam to produce another son. The vague notion of such a joining pulled at him in a way that he could not explain. What would it be like to be a father? To be with a woman?

And yet these too were only born of flesh and costume—roles that were mistaken for true self. Shaka had taught him as much a thousand times.

Still he read. Still the story unfolded, like a dance with words sung around the fire, a play dressed up in flesh, each page so fascinating that at times Stephen found his mind being pulled into it, as if it were real.

And it was, at least from her perspective.

Shaka’s voice whispered through his head.
What does he think of the story, Stephen
?

He is full of fascination.

Does he like it?

He is very pleased with it. They gather in great numbers and dance around the fires in celebration.

Does it frighten him?

Stephen hesitated. He is only saddened that she was blind for so long. But I think it will end well for Julian. She is finding the truth of her freedom.

He lowered his eyes and continued to read.

The birds were already announcing the morning when he turned the last page and stared at his mother’s final words.

A HUM awakened in the back of Stephen’s mind. A whisper of concern for his mother’s safety. The emotion swelled. Deep sorrow tempted him, not for himself but for the woman held in a place of such ongoing suffering.

Surely she had found a way to continue in the light without forgetting who she was.

But what if she hadn’t?

He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and let the emotion pass without feeding it any resistance. Resistance only fueled deeper suffering.

The deep calm returned and he opened his eyes. He closed the cover and looked at the book. Shaka had marked the hide with a large
O
, the symbol for
outlaw
in the English tongue.

He understood now why knowledge of his mother would test him. It was the first time he’d been so directly confronted with another person’s suffering. He had no context for Julian’s role as his mother, but having read her story, he felt a deep compassion for her struggle. She’d seen the light and yet seemed to suffer still.

If his mother was still in the valley, perhaps he could go and set her free.

But of course! This was what Shaka must have in mind. This was his task now—to find Julian and help her see the light once again.

The thought swept through him and his body went rigid. He could not adequately or immediately describe the emotions swelling in his chest. They weren’t negative. Eagerness, perhaps. Delight.

Stephen wrapped the book up in its cloth, set the bundle on the earth beside the thatched wall, and ran from the cooking hut to find Shaka.

Jika, jika, jawa…
today was going to be a fine day.

He checked the sleeping hut and found it vacant. But this wasn’t so unusual. Shaka often vanished early in the morning to find his way. Maybe he was in the tall hut. He dipped his head under the eaves and had one foot on the ground outside when he saw his teacher, watching him from the path at the edge of the clearing.

Shaka and one other.

A woman.

Stephen was so surprised by the sight that he jerked upright, hitting his head on one of the poles that supported the grass roof. He scrambled out and straightened, eyes fixed on the stranger by Shaka’s side.

He’d never seen a woman. Shaka had explained the significant differences between male and female among humans, and he’d witnessed the polarities in the jungle among all creatures.

But he wasn’t prepared for the fascination that swept through him upon seeing a woman in the flesh. And so close.

His first thought was of his mother. But Julian’s skin was lighter, like his, not dark like that of the woman twenty paces from him.

Shaka took the woman by her hand and led her forward. Her round eyes were dark, not pale blue like his own. Her frame smaller by a third, thinner at her waist, which supported a short skirt made of woven grass. She had breasts for feeding an infant.

Woman! This was a woman and a fine, fine one at that, though he had no point of reference. All were fine. She was magical in every respect.

Stephen found that he was so taken by the sight of this woman that he could not move. But there was no need to. Shaka was bringing her to him. And she seemed as fascinated by him as he was by her.

They came to a stop three paces away and for a while no one spoke. Shaka had told him that his affection for others might feel overwhelming. His heart was stripped of the judgments that many carried on their shoulders, he said.

Without any thought as to how the woman might react, Stephen stepped up to her and started to lift his hand, eager to make a connection with her. But he thought twice and glanced at Shaka.

“Can I touch it?”

“She’s not an it, Stephen.”

“No, no, of course not. It’s a she.” A small part of him began to feel awkward but he quickly allowed the feeling to pass. “I mean, she’s a woman.”

He returned his eyes to the woman, who was staring at him as if he’d fallen out of the sky.

“I only meant that you are very beautiful, and seeing as how I’ve never seen much less touched a female of my kind, I was wondering if I might touch your skin. Just to connect with you.”

She said nothing. So he gently rested his hand on her upper arm.

“Your skin is very soft,” he said.

She blinked but offered no other reaction.

“What is your name?”

“Her name is Lela,” Shaka said.

Lela! The girl who had helped his mother!

“Lela,” Stephen repeated. “I am Stephen.”

His hand was still on her arm and he lowered it, thinking that it was making her uncomfortable. He had to remember that others’ ways were not the same as his. He wasn’t sure how else to be, so he shrugged and took a step back.

His teacher was watching him, wearing only the hint of a smile.

“What does he think?”

Shaka was addressing his costume again.

“He thinks he is very happy to see a woman,” Stephen said.

“I’m sure he is. And he must know that this woman is not his.”

“No, never. No woman could be his. He owns nothing, nor ever will. Nor does any man or woman own anything. These costumes only think to possess what cannot be possessed.”

“Costume?” Lela said. Her voice was sweet, like a running brook, higher in tone and at once lovely to his ears.

“The name we use for body and mind,” Shaka said. Then to Stephen, “She’s only come to guide you.”

“Of course, Shaka. To guide. Guide me where? To the valley?”

Shaka eyed him. “You read the book?”

“Every word. You would like me to go and find my mother as she requests?”

“I know your mother,” the woman said.

“That’s good!” Stephen said. “She is well?”

Lela seemed to have recovered from her initial shock at seeing him. She slowly stepped around him, studying his body. “I’m the first woman you’ve seen?”

He turned his head, following her with his eyes. “The first.”

“You’ve grown into a strong man.”

“I have.”

Her brow arched. Why he found her so enchanting he wasn’t sure, but his attraction to her seemed greater than any he’d felt. Or perhaps it was only different.

Her eyes darted to Shaka. “No man can confront Kirutu and survive,” she said.

Stephen corrected her. “There’s no need to survive when one cannot die.”

He was only saying what he knew, but by the confusion on Lela’s face it was clear that she didn’t understand. She wasn’t of this knowing.

“You’re a naive boy who will die with me.”

“Die? I cannot die. Neither can you.”

“I am dead already!” she snapped, flinging out her hand. “I came only because Shaka called me. Julian is there still, under Kirutu’s rule of terror. Wilam is enslaved. If they discover that I’ve left the Tulim valley, they will put me to death.”

Stephen looked at Shaka. “Why haven’t you told me about this insanity before?” he asked.

“Because your time had not come,” Shaka said.

“And my mother’s time?”

“Has come as well,” he said.

So then…it was as he’d guessed. Once again urgency raced through his mind. It was going to be such a day indeed.

“Then we should go and show them the way out of their insanity,” he said. “We should leave immediately! Shaka, show Lela. Then we can enter the valley and show them all.”

“Show me what?” Lela said. “That I’m to trust a child to protect me where he sees no danger? I would be better off returning alone.” She made her plea directly to Shaka. “I beg you…come with us. Kirutu will only laugh at this one.”

“It’s his path to take. I wouldn’t dismiss him so quickly.”

She held his gaze for a long beat before he broke off and looked at Stephen.

“This isn’t for me to show her, it is for you. And only when you know it yourself, among those of your kind.”

“You are my kind.”

Shaka offered no agreement or disagreement.

“Lela has slept near the falls two nights, waiting. If you leave now, you will reach the valley by nightfall. Sleep before you enter it.”

Two nights? Shaka had left him alone for a night three days ago. Now he understood.

“She’ll show you the way to your mother. Find her, Stephen. She will know.”

“Know what?”

“Find her.”

“I will. You must not doubt this.”

There was a thread of question in his teacher’s eyes. He approached Stephen and took his hand. Smoothed his palm over his knuckles. When Shaka looked up into his eyes, that hint of concern had been replaced with a probing gaze of deep affection.

“The valley will be your great crucible, my son,” he said softly. “Everything I’ve taught you must be understood among your own.”

“Of course, Shaka.”

“You will be tempted to forget.”

“I will remember.”

“Nothing can threaten you.”

“Nothing.”

“Do not forget who you are. That you need nothing more, nor anyone to be complete. In this way you disidentify with all labels. Remember the words I spoke to your mother on the hill before she made a way. Be, Stephen. Only be the light. Never forget.”

The persistence of Shaka’s warning surprised him, but he’d learned to listen.

“I will never forget.”

“If you do, you will suffer. Many will suffer. The scales over Kirutu’s eyes are thick. His ears cannot hear. His heart is imprisoned by hatred. He is enslaved to his costume. He is terrified of death.”

“Darkness cannot exist where there is light.”

“You will see this darkness in a way you never have. It will know you have come.”

“My light will only chase it away.”

Shaka’s mouth slowly curved and a sparkle lit his eyes. “And how bright is your light!” He lifted Stephen’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “Forget nothing.”

Many times he had said this. Did he doubt what Stephen himself knew?

Shaka shifted his eyes to Lela, then stepped past Stephen to stand in front of her. He pulled her head close and whispered into her ear. Stephen saw her eyes soften over his teacher’s shoulder. Tears misted her eyes.

Stephen gave them their space, stepping several paces away and squatting as Shaka spoke through her fear. She’d called him naive—perhaps it was best to be naive. Her suffering was unnecessary, this he knew, but he felt a deep compassion for her, because she was so bound by fear. Perhaps Shaka was helping her see even now.

Not so many years ago Stephen had faced dreadful fear alone in the swamps at night while Shaka watched unseen, ready to rescue him if he couldn’t overcome the terror of death in the jaws of a crocodile or at a viper’s bite.

From Lela’s perspective Kirutu was that viper, poised to strike. She feared a future that by definition did not exist in the present and, therefore, was unreal. Her fear caused her to suffer unnecessarily.

Shaka kissed Lela’s forehead and she nodded, then stepped away from him.

Stephen stood as she approached, eyes moist. He didn’t fully understand what had pushed both Shaka and Lela into such a somber place, but this did not concern him.

Lela placed her hand on his chest and looked up into his face. “I will place my trust in you, son of Julian. Please, protect me. Keep me safe.”

He glanced at Shaka, but his teacher was looking off to the horizon.

“I will,” he said. “You have no reason to be afraid.”

Her faced softened. She looked at his chest and brushed her hand over his muscled arm.

“Your mother’s heart cries for you. She would be so proud. No Tulim could match your stature.”

To this Stephen could not respond. He hardly knew what to feel. Pride, perhaps, but he had long ago learned the price of pride.

He could not deny, however, that her hand on him seemed to deepen his affection for her.

“You are very beautiful, Lela,” he said. “No bird of paradise could compare to you.”

“I didn’t come for flattery from a young man,” she said.

He did not know the nuances of the word
flattery
, but the rise in her energy pulled at him, so he said more, thinking to lift her joy.

“I am overwhelmed by you.”

“And far too naive,” she said, using that word again. He ignored it.

Lela reached up and pulled his lower lip open. Looked at his teeth. Satisfied, she gracefully turned toward the path.

“I will take you.”

“I will follow.”

“Stephen,” Shaka said.

He turned. “Yes?”

“Take your spear. There are many boars in the Tulim valley.”