Tuatat and Achok exchanged puzzled glances.
“What do you mean by that, outlander?” Tuatat demanded.
Imaro countered with a question of his own.
“Is this land your country, or does it belong to the ones who took your cattle and young people?”
Despite the warrior’s imperfect command of their language, the Nubala bristled at the implication of his words. Scowls appeared on many faces, and hands tightened on spear-shafts. In response, Imaro’s hands moved closer to the hilts of his sword and dagger.
Tuatat remained calm, even though the outlander’s words and tone stung him as much as they had the other Nubala. Even so, he kept his spear-point aimed at the smooth-skinned stranger’s abdomen as he answered the question.
“All of the land between the Demons’ Smoke and the Wall Rocks is called Muyum, outlander,” the wachik said. “We Nubala have our part, and the Jijiwi – the robed ones – have theirs. And you still have not told us why you have come here ... Imaro.”
Tuatat had gestured toward Motoni when he said “Demons’ Smoke,” and at the escarpment when he said “Wall Rocks.” Imaro took the remoteness of Muyum into account as he spoke.
“There are many lands south of the High Rocks, Tuatat,” he said. “Many people, many ways – much of which I have seen. I have seen others who herd cattle. I, myself, once did so.”
He paused, looking in turn at Tuatat, Achok, Guguk and the others. They saw appraisal in that gaze, as well as a touch of disapproval.
“And in all the places I have been,” the warrior continued, “I have never seen herders who would give away their cattle and people, and receive nothing in return. Never ... until now. And I wonder what the reason for this could be.”
From the darkening expressions on the Nubalas’ faces, Imaro realized that the implication, if not the details, of his message had struck its mark. He was certain that these people were warriors ... yet warriors did not behave in the manner the Nubala did when he first saw them. Now, they were displaying a modicum of who they truly were. His only concern was that they might be tempted to vent their shame and anger on him. If so, he was prepared.
“You may have been to many places, outlander,” Tuatat finally said in a truculent tone. “But you know nothing of us.”
“Tell me, then. I might be able to help you.”
The Nubala stared incredulously at Imaro, and at each other. Guguk frowned in fury and raised his spear. Tuatat laid his hand on the shaft of the weapon and shook his head. Even as the others muttered in low tones, the wachik’s thoughts swirled in many directions.
How could this stranger be of help to us? he wondered. Did Besu Jusa send him to us, after abandoning us for so long? Is our suffering about to come to an end?
“Will you wait?” Tuatat asked Imaro.
The warrior nodded. Without leaving anyone behind to prevent the stranger from departing, the group of Nubala walked out of earshot. Then they engaged in a loud, animated discussion, with many glances and gestures directed toward Imaro, who abided patiently.
At last, the conversation ended, and Tuatat approached Imaro as the others stayed behind.
“Come with us, outlander,” he said. “Come, listen, and learn.”
* * *
The rocks of Tuatat’s clan were crowded, for many people from other clans had come to take part in the Gifting ceremony. All the Nubala present – men and women, old and young, from near and far – pressed closer to get a better look at the stranger who had come among them. The air hummed with their comments concerning his size and lack of mbama-marks. It was the first time in rains beyond counting that the Nubala had seen anyone, other than the Jijiwi, who was not of their kind.
For his part, Imaro breathed deeply of a conglomerate aroma he had not experienced since his boyhood: a mixture of the smells of people and cattle, sweat and dung. The people were different. So were the cattle. Imaro’s memories of his former people were less pleasant than those of the cattle he had herded ...
Curiosity rather than hostility showed on the faces of the Nubala as they gazed at Imaro. Yet he saw resentment and despondency as well. He guessed that those negative emotions were not directed at him. Their target had to be the white-robed people who had sneered and laughed while claiming their tribute of cattle and captives.
When the procession reached the rock spires, amid which the Nubalas’ dwellings perched like the nests of birds, Tuatat signaled for silence. Then he introduced the outlander.
“This is Imaro, a man from afar,” the wachik said. “He is our guest, and will be treated as though he is of our clans.”
“The people of our clans bear mbama-marks,” said Guguk, who stood near Imaro and Tuatat. “This one has none.”
Tuatat frowned in disapproval of Guguk’s incivility, even though some of the Nubala nodded in agreement with Guguk’s words. Imaro had already noticed the disquiet that gripped the big Nubala. Imaro was not yet concerned with direct confrontation. But he knew he needed to defuse the disrespect Guguk’s comment implied – and instigated.
“I have marks on my skin,” the warrior said quietly. “But they are not like yours.”
Suddenly, he thrust out both his massive arms. Guguk and Tuatat each took an involuntary step backward, as did the others who stood close to the outlander. However, Imaro made no further move.
“Look,” he said.
Cautiously at first, then with curiosity, the Nubala peered at the dark skin of the outlanders’ arms and torso. There, they saw the traces of more than a few scars. Those marks had not been made by incisions of ash beneath his skin. Some had been inflicted by the points and edges of weapons; others could only have been ripped by fangs and claws.
Because he had been touched by a deity while still in his mother’s womb, Imaro healed more
