Mara’s voice rose, tension making the blood sing in her ears. ‘I did not ask to be Ruling Lady!’ Dangerously close to tears, she used anger to keep from breaking. ‘Until a week ago, I was to be a sister of Lashima, all I wished for in this life! If the Acoma honour must rely upon me for revenge against the Minwanabi, if I need counsel and training, all will wait until I have visited the sacred grove and done reverence to the memories of the slain!’
Keyoke glanced at Nacoya, who nodded. The young Lady of the Acoma was near breaking, and must be deferred to, but the old nurse was ready to deal with even that. She said, ‘All is prepared for you in the grove. I have presumed to choose your father’s ceremonial sword to recall his spirit, and Lanokota’s manhood robe to recall his.’ Keyoke motioned to where the two objects lay atop a richly embroidered cushion.
Seeing the sword her father wore at festivals and the robe presented to her brother during his ceremony of manhood was more than the exhausted, grief-stricken girl could bear. With tears rising, she said, ‘Leave me!’
The three hesitated, though to disobey the Lady of the Acoma was to risk punishment even unto death. The hadonra was first to turn and quit his mistress’s quarters. Keyoke followed, but as Nacoya turned to go, she repeated, ‘Child, all is ready in the grove.’ Then slowly she slid the great door closed.
Alone at last, Mara allowed the tears to stream down her cheeks. Yet she held her sobbing in check as she rose and picked up the cushion with the sword and robe upon it.
The ceremony of mourning was a private thing; only family might enter the contemplation glade. But under more normal circumstances, a stately procession of servants and retainers would have marched with surviving family members as far as the blocking hedge before the entrance. Instead a single figure emerged from the rear door of her quarters. Mara carried the cushion gently, her white robe wrinkled and dirty where the hem dragged in the dust.
Even deaf and blind she would have remembered the way. Her feet knew the path, down to the last stone fisted into the gnarled ulo tree root beside the ceremonial gate. The thick hedge that surrounded the grove shielded it from observation. Only the Acoma might walk here, save a priest of Chochocan when consecrating the grove or the gardener who tended the shrubs and flowers. A blocking hedge faced the gate, preventing anyone outside from peering within.
Mara entered and hurried to the centre of the grove. There, amid a sculptured collection of sweet-blossomed fruit trees, a tiny stream flowed through the sacred pool. The rippled surface reflected the blue-green of the sky through curtains of overhanging branches. At water’s edge a large rock sat embedded in the soil, worn smooth by ages of exposure to the elements; the shatra bird of the Acoma was once carved deeply on its surface, but now the crest was barely visible. This was the family’s natami, the sacred rock that embodied the spirit of the Acoma. Should the day come when the Acoma were forced to flee these lands, this one most revered possession would be carried away and all who bore the name would die protecting it. For should the natami fall into the hands of any other, the family would be no more. Mara glanced at the far hedge. The three natami taken by Acoma ancestors were interred under a slab, inverted so their carved crests would never see sunlight again. Mara’s forebears had obliterated three families in the Game of the Council. Now her own stood in peril of joining them.
Next to the stone a hole had been dug, the damp soil piled to one side. Mara placed the cushion with her father’s sword and her brother’s robe within. With bare hands she pushed the earth back into the hole, patting it down, unmindful as she soiled her white robe.
Then she sat back on her heels, caught by the sudden compulsion to laugh. A strange, detached giddiness washed over her and she felt alarm. Despite this being the appointed place, tears and pain so long held in check seemed unwilling to come.
She took a breath and stifled the laughter. Her mind flashed images and she felt hot flushes rush up her breasts, throat, and cheeks. The ceremony must continue, despite her strange feelings.
Beside the pool rested a small vial, a faintly smoking brazier, a tiny dagger, and a clean white gown. Mara lifted the vial and removed the stopper. She poured fragrant oils upon the pool, sending momentary shimmers of fractured light across its surface. Softly she said, ‘Rest, my father. Rest, my brother. Come to your home soil and sleep with our ancestors.’
She laid the vial aside and with a jerk ripped open the bodice of her robe. Despite the heat, chill bumps roughened her small breasts as the breeze struck suddenly exposed, damp skin. She reached up and again ripped her gown, as ancient traditions were followed. With the second tear she cried out, a halfhearted sound, little better than a whimper. Tradition demanded the show of loss before her ancestors.
Again she tore her robe, ripping it from her left shoulder so it hung half to her waist. But the shout that followed held more anger at her loss than sorrow. With her left hand she reached up and tore her gown from her right shoulder. This time her sob was full-throated as pain erupted from the pit of her stomach.
Traditions whose origins were lost in time at last triggered a release. All the torment she had held in check came forth, rushing up from her groin through her stomach and chest to issue from her mouth as a scream. The sound of a wounded animal rang in the glade as Mara gave full vent to her anger, revulsion, torment and loss.
Shrieking with sorrow, nearly blinded with tears, she plunged her hand into the almost extinguished brazier. Ignoring the pain of the few hot cinders there, she smeared the ashes across her breasts and down her exposed stomach. This symbolized that her heart was ashes, and again sobs racked her body as her mind sought final release from the horror left by the murder of her father, brother, and hundreds of loyal warriors. Her left hand shot out and grabbed dirt from beside the natami. She smeared the damp soil in her hair and struck her head with her fist. She was one with Acoma soil, and to that soil she would return, as would the spirits of the slain.
Now she struck her thigh with her fist, chanting the words of mourning, almost unintelligible through her crying. Rocking back and forth upon her knees, she wailed in sorrow.
Then she seized the tiny metal dagger, a family heirloom of immense value, used only for this ceremony over the ages. She drew the blade from its sheath and cut herself across the left arm, the hot pain a counterpoint to the sick ache in her chest.
She held the small wound over the pool, letting drops of blood fall to mix with the water, as tradition dictated. Again she tore at her robe, ripping all but a few tatters from her body. Naked but for a loincloth, she cast the rags away with a strangled cry. Pulling her hair, forcing pain to cleanse her grief, she chanted ancient words, calling her ancestors to witness her bereavement. Then she threw herself across the fresh soil over the place of interment and rested her head upon the family natami.
With the ceremony now complete, Mara’s grief flowed like the water streaming from the pool, carrying her tears and blood to the river, thence to the distant sea. As mourning eased away pain, the ceremony would eventually cleanse her, but now was the moment of private grief when tears and weeping brought no shame. And Mara descended into grief as wave after wave of sorrow issued from the deepest reservoir within her soul.
A sound intruded, a rustling of leaves as if someone moved through the tree branches above her. Caught up in grief, Mara barely noticed, even when a dark figure dropped to land next to her. Before she could open her eyes, powerful fingers yanked on her hair. Mara’s head snapped back. Jolted by a terrible current of fear, she struggled, half glimpsing a man in black robes behind her. Then a blow to the face stunned her. Her hair was released and a cord was passed over her head. Instinctively she grabbed at it. Her fingers tangled in the loop that should have killed her in seconds, but as the man tightened the garrotte, her palm prevented the knot in the centre from crushing her windpipe. Still she couldn’t breathe. Her attempt to shout for aid was stifled. She tried to roll away, but her assailant jerked upon the cord and held her firmly in check. A wrestler’s kick learned from her brother earned her a mocking half-laugh, half-grunt. Despite her skill, Mara was no match for the assassin.
The cord tightened, cutting painfully into her hand and neck. Mara gasped for breath, but none came and her lungs burned. Struggling