Outlaw

Chapter Sixteen

THE DAYS that followed were a dizzying whirlwind. Yes, my purpose was to bear a child, but I had sparked more than the desire for a son in Wilam’s heart—of that I was quite sure.

When a woman is the subject of such utter preoccupation to a man as I was, she cannot help but feel like a queen. I was caught up in the joy of Melino and the other muhan, who now treated me with new respect.

I was tempted to believe that Wilam was falling in love with me. Perhaps even I with him. Everywhere I went, the people knew. I was Wilam’s second wife. Lela was ecstatic and wrestled far too many details from me.

But I was duly aware that I was that queen only because I bore the promise of a child. My power grew in my belly, not in my heart. I kept telling myself that this didn’t matter, I should only be grateful. But the thought nagged at me when I allowed it.

I was loved for what I could offer, not for who I was.

And who was I? I didn’t rightly know anymore.

Melino became my confidante. That first night I was certain that I would quickly become the object of her jealousy. How could she see Wilam’s face and not wonder if she could bring such a smile from him? But the very next day she called for me and put my fears to rest.

“What else do you know about pleasing a man?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” I asked, blushing. “No more than you.”

She pulled me up the path and spoke in a hushed voice. “I have never touched Wilam’s mouth with mine! This isn’t our way and yet he will not stop talking of it.”

“He told you that?”

She looked at me, confused. “You did not do this?”

“No…I mean yes, I did.” That Wilam would be so candid with her took me off guard. I still didn’t understand the Tulim’s transparency. Of course Melino was Wilam’s wife and privy to every aspect of his life, to the finest detail.

“You must show me this so that I can try.”

I learned later that her attempt was a great success, and that made me laugh.

Melino and I talked regularly after that, not once exchanging an awkward moment regarding our shared love for Wilam. She had welcomed me into their marriage as was customary, and she suffered no lessening of attention from him.

She was the first among the Tulim with whom I shared my own rudimentary spiritual beliefs, perhaps because for the first time I began to feel as though perhaps God had not forgotten me. The details of all the stories I’d learned growing up seemed disconnected from this jungle, so I spoke only of a Creator of love who had sent his own warrior of sorts, his son, to rescue the world from hatred and jealousy and strife of all kinds.

I realized as I told it that this story was similar to the prophesy Melino hoped might be fulfilled through my child. She found all of it curious and quite delightful.

My faith felt distant to me. It was still there but submerged by my harrowing experience.

A week passed and I knew that one question occupied their minds more than any other. Would I bleed? Melino asked me every day, reminding me of my true purpose. But no, I had not bled. It wasn’t that time yet.

Ten days passed and still I had not bled.

Eleven. Then twelve. Then fourteen.

I would never have imagined in my wildest dreams that my bleeding would be the fixation of so many people. They knew, all of them. The wind itself was whispering—Yuli has not bled.

My period, in fact, became a large part of my identity. My brain and my heart seemed to be present only in supporting roles. With each passing day I seemed to be treated with more respect, as though I’d become more valuable.

This fixation with my bleeding began to bother me, and I finally made that frustration known to Melino by snapping at her. She merely looked at me with a stern face and told me to quit being selfish. I had nothing more to say.

On the morning of the sixteenth day I awoke to nausea.

The word spread like wildfire. Yuli was with child. Wilam was going to have a son!

I was immediately elevated to a status not unlike that of a goddess among the Tulim. Where I had been met with knowing eyes and smiles over the past two weeks, I was now greeted with accolades of awe and tender touches.

I was a white girl from Atlanta living in a jungle that had nearly claimed my life, but for the next two days I felt as though God had indeed heard my cry and come to my rescue. Perhaps not in the way of my choosing, but he’d come after all.

The feast that Wilam threw to celebrate was a massive undertaking that saw the slaughtering of one hundred pigs. The scent of their hair burning over open fires filled the entire village and watered Impirum mouths with the promise of meat and yams and squash and steamed pandanus fruit.

Melino saw to my dressing and I walked among them like royalty, colored in red and blue pigments with a crown of towering bird of paradise feathers that might have fetched a month’s salary in the Western world. As dusk fell, nearly four thousand Impirum sat or squatted on the slopes, watching Wilam present me to Melino as the bearer of his child, whom he proudly announced would one day rule the Tulim.

As was their custom, he milked the red, soupy paste from the pandanus fruit onto my belly, then fed it to Melino. The congregation’s thundering cry scattered a thousand birds from the canopy above. By consuming this symbol of blood, Melino became as much the mother of my child as I was.

The tribe ran back and forth, dancing and singing, and I with them, until I could hardly stand.

Wilam led me away from the celebration late, followed by Melino and two of his ranking warriors. Much ado was made of how great the feast had been, but as we approached the Muhanim the air became quiet.

When we stepped into the hut, the elders were seated along the walls, watching us with somber eyes. I knew immediately that something was wrong.

Wilam guided me around the smoldering fire. “Get her a soft mat,” he ordered one of his warriors. “Get her some water and some meat. Hurry.” He looked at me. “You are hungry?”

“I just ate. What’s happening?”

His hand touched my belly. “The child is good?”

I was growing accustomed to their hovering and Wilam’s unyielding concern for my well-being. “All is well,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have danced so much.”

“Then you should have thrown a smaller feast.”

“You must not sit too quickly or run too much.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve been with child less than a month.”

“And I will see to it that you’re with child another eight months. Now sit.”

Melino had seated herself with her legs folded to one side. “Sit beside me, Yuli. Don’t pay Wilam any mind, he’s only a man who knows nothing about being a woman. He thinks you’re made of flowers and will blow apart in the wind.”

Normally this would have earned her a chuckle from the warriors and a scoff from Wilam, but tonight there was no mirth in the Muhanim.

I settled to my seat.

Wilam paced on the bark floor like a caged lion. This was not his typical calm behavior. “Because now you must know that everything has changed.”

“Not so changed that I don’t know what to do with my own body,” I said.

His eyes darted to Melino, and by the concern etched on his face, I knew that something was indeed wrong.

She nodded once. “Listen to him, Yuli.”

“What is it?”

Wilam faced me. “The Warik are wearing the black grease.”

I glanced at the elders and saw the glint of fear in their eyes.

“What is the black grease?”

“We must not speak of this,” one of the elders said.

Melino flashed a harsh glare at the men.

“She bears Wilam’s child! She has the right to know.”

Wilam crossed to the platform and sat, facing me with steady eyes. For a while he said nothing, but that silence worked fingers of terrible fear into my mind.

“The Warik know you carry my child. It was my hope that they would see my wisdom and strength and harden their hearts against Kirutu. This is the way of the Tulim, to offer greatest respect to those who bring life. They saw your beauty when you sang and danced with the children.” He stopped.

“What is the black grease?” I asked again.

“But Kirutu and the witch of the Karun tribe have turned them with the black grease. It is made from the fat of a crocodile mixed with Sawim’s blood. With this ceremony they call on the power of the evil spirits.”

The fear in that room was palpable. I could hear the fire crackling and the night creatures crying in the jungle, and my ears heard the sounds of hell.

“But spirits are only spirits,” I said, trying to believe my own words. “They can’t overpower the mighty Impirum.”

His eyes shifted to Leweeg, the elder who had spoken. He was the closest the Impirum had to a shaman. Among the three clans—the Warik, the Impirum, and the Karun—a true shaman could come from and live among the Karun only, but each tribe had spiritual elders.

“She is incapable of understanding,” the old man said. “She is a woman and she is wam.”

“She is my wife!” Wilam snapped.

They exchanged a long look and the elder finally dipped his head.

“Forgive me.”

I had been told that, compared to most tribes in the region, the Tulim regarded women with respect. But some biases are not easily washed from the hearts of men.

It was the least of my concerns at the moment.

“Sawim has declared our union and our child invalid,” Wilam said.

“And you will tolerate this?” I demanded.

His eyes flashed with hatred. “I will see a thousand Warik die before I see any harm come to my son. The rule of the Tulim must not leave the Impirum clan.”

With those words reality once again settled around me like a thick fog. My value to them was still a matter of political power. We had celebrated as if heaven itself had fallen to earth, but the celebration hadn’t been for me. It had been for my unborn child.

Even more, it had been for Wilam.

For his river of his life that would extend his power for yet another generation. I was but a vessel.

I felt Melino’s hand settle on my thigh. Tears welled in my eyes.

“You have nothing to fear, Yuli,” Melino said. “Wilam will raise a thousand warriors to protect you. Our child will be born.”

“It has been a hundred years since any have taken up the black grease,” the elder said softly. “There will be war.”

“Then let there be war,” Wilam spat.

He turned to me, face stern.

“You will sleep in the spousal hut alone. You may never come or go without my men. There is nothing to fear. My men will protect you. We have heard that Kirutu is only making noise. This will take time and we will be ready.”

His words should have been comforting.

Instead I felt utterly alone.

“Take her to the hut,” he said. “Bring me my warriors.” And then to me, meaning well, I know: “You will be safe.”

Wilam was wrong. I wasn’t safe.