Naamah's Blessing - By Jacqueline Carey Page 0,139
you strength,” Paullu repeated. “We will have a great feast in your honor.
I wondered what masato was and soon found out, somewhat to my dismay. It was a fermented beverage made by boiling and mashing manioc root, which was then chewed and spat into a large wooden tub, repeating the process over and over; a village endeavor undertaken collectively by all the women, one in which I was expected to participate.
Balthasar was horrified. “I think I’d rather eat grubs.”
I had to own, the first warm, grainy mouthful made my stomach churn, but the village women were laughing and jesting, enjoying the communal nature of the process. Paullu’s wife, Sarpay, pointed at Balthasar and made a suggestion that had all of them giggling.
“She says that since you are as pretty as a girl, you should help prepare the masato,” Eyahue informed Balthasar.
The latter fixed the old man with a death glare, which only made the women laugh harder.
Water was poured over the macerated manioc, and the resulting liquid was left in the hot sun to ferment for long hours. Paullu and his men returned from hunting with great fanfare, having trapped and slaughtered a wild pig. This was butchered with care, wrapped in leaves and set to cook in a firepit. By the end of the day, the scent of roasting pork made my mouth water.
Before the feast commenced, the shaman Atoc summoned Eyahue, Bao, and me, the three good spirits, for a ceremonial blessing. First he brushed us all over with a whisk of palm fronds, calling on the spirits of the forest to protect us. Then, crouching over a bowl, he ignited a mixture of herbs. Drawing up the smoke through a hollow reed, he blew it into our faces while the villagers watched.
“That is strong magic,” Paullu said in approval, fingering the strand of pale pink beads of rose quartz he now wore around his neck. “It will not keep you safe, but it will help.”
Bowls of masato were filled from the tub and given to everyone. The milky beverage was largely tasteless, but the fermentation made it slightly fizzy, and after the second bowl, I could feel its effects. Despite his grumbling, I was pleased to see that Balthasar’s sense of propriety overrode his reservations. With only the slightest grimace, he drained the bowl that Paullu’s wife, Sarpay, offered to him.
“If I didn’t know how it was made, it wouldn’t be that bad,” he admitted, wiping his mouth. He smiled at our hostess. “Sulpayki, Sarpay.”
With a delighted smile, she trotted off to refill his bowl.
Children shouted and clapped as the roasted pig was exhumed from the firepit, the rich, fatty aroma filling the air. We ate with our fingers, reveling in the abundance. Not even Balthasar could find fault with the pork.
Afterward, there was more masato, while the men danced with handheld drums, spinning in circles. And mayhap it was the effects of the manioc beer, but I found myself thinking that there was something poignant about the symbolism of the process by which it was made. As I knew all too well, thanks to the instruction of the Patriarch of Riva, in the Yeshuite faith, the sacrifice of the One God’s son is celebrated by partaking in the Eucharist, the bread and wine symbolizing the body and blood of Yeshua ben Yosef. This was a more literal affair, celebrating the hard-won bounty of the jungle and the deep reserve of strength found in the bonds of a tightly knit community.
When I tried to articulate the thought to Bao, he laughed at me. “I think you’re a bit drunk, Moirin.” He leaned close, whispering in my ear. “Don’t drink too much masato. I have a surprise for later.”
“Oh?” I raised my brows, but before Bao could give any further hints, Paullu came to pull him into the men’s dance, handing him a drum.
While the rays of the setting sun gilded the lush jungle around us, Bao spun in dizzying circles, bare-chested among the naked hunters, beating out a complex rhythm on the drum he held. I could not help but remember the performance he had arranged with the acrobats of Eglantine House in honor of the Montrèvan oath-swearing ceremony. It seemed so long ago and far away, it might have taken place in a different lifetime.
I thought of Desirée with a pang, and prayed that she was well. And then I pushed the thought aside with regret, for there was nothing I could do about it.