Secret Sacrament Read online

  Dedication

  For my mother

  Foreword

  Secret Sacrament was conceived in October 1993, in a room in one of the residence halls of the University of Iowa, in the United States. I had won a writing fellowship to go there to take part in the International Writing Program at the university. The fellowship was one of those extraordinary gifts that comes just once in a lifetime. It arrived when I was burnt out by long years of laboring alone in my studio, when my creative cup was empty, and I was hungering for encouragement and company. I had already glimpsed the young man, hero of a new book, but I had no energy for him or his story—whatever it was to be.

  From the moment I arrived in Iowa I felt renewed. There is indescribable richness when thirty people from all over the world—from countries including Slovenia, Saudi Arabia, Russia, Egypt, Colombia, Ukraine, Cote d’Ivoire, Finland, Kenya, Zimbabwe, Bangladesh, and Honduras—meet together to share stories and songs, poems and laughter, food and philosophies. It was a rare experience, inspiring and utterly enriching. Out of it, out of that wondrous time in America, came Secret Sacrament.

  But the book was not born easily. It went through several drafts, all written during a time of grief in my own life. It was a book I wrestled with, anguished over, wept through—and one that gave me the highest joy. I thank my husband, Lee, for his understanding and ceaseless commitment to Gabriel’s story and to me. Without Lee, I doubt this work would have been finished.

  I thank the Arts Council of New Zealand Toi Aotearoa, and my friends of the 1993 International Writing Program in Iowa, for the fellowship that restored the writer in me and gave me the capacity for Secret Sacrament.

  I am grateful to the three people who read the early drafts, who each played a significant role in the shaping of what this story has finally become. There is thankfulness for Gabriel himself, who became not only a healer in the book I was writing, but a friend in whose company I found solace and strength.

  Last, and above all, I thank my mother, though she died while this book was being written. I was with her as she journeyed between this world and the next, and what we shared during those last minutes was the greatest gift she ever gave me. The scene in this book of Myron’s death, and what he and Gabriel experienced in the Valley of the Shadow, is taken almost word for word from my own diary.

  Sherryl Jordan

  Tauranga, New Zealand

  January 1996

  Subsequent Note

  My very special thanks to my editor at HarperCollins, Antonia Markiet, for her marvelous suggestions for changes to this American edition of Secret Sacrament. Her insight and deep empathy with the story and its characters opened to me new themes I had not explored, or had too briefly hinted at. Even though this rewriting was done more than three years after the novel was published here in New Zealand, I was astonished at how easy it was to slip back into Gabriel’s world, and under his skin. The revisions were a joy, and the new scenes flowed easily into the existing text, as though they had always belonged there. I am deeply grateful to Antonia for her vision, which, blended with mine, has lifted Gabriel’s story to where it was always meant to be.

  And, strangely, for the second time in my life, Gabriel’s company has become a healing strength to me, this time as I make my own long journey out of illness. I feel twice-blessed by him.

  January 2000

  Map

  Contents

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Subsequent Note

  Map

  Main Characters

  1 Broken Images

  2 Healing Dreams

  3 Preparation

  4 The Calling

  5 Vows

  6 The Silken Snare

  7 The Dream

  8 Temptation

  9 Into Infinity

  10 The Meeting

  11 Day of the Soul’s Return

  12 Prophecies and Destinies

  13 Hauntings

  14 The Honor-Feast

  15 Traitor’s Flight

  16 Sanctuary

  17 Killings and Healings

  18 Moon of the Seventh Sacrament

  19 The Spirit That Lasts

  20 Hope

  21 Visions of Fire

  22 Transfiguration

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Sherryl Jordan

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Main Characters

  Gabriel

  A healer, gifted with the ability to interpret dreams

  Lena

  Gabriel’s mother

  Jager

  Gabriel’s father

  Gabriel’s siblings in order of birth

  Myron

  Gabriel’s younger brother

  Imris

  Darien

  Jayd

  Subin

  Egan

  Jager’s brother, uncle to Gabriel

  Teachers at the Citadel

  Salverion

  Grand Master of Healing

  Sheel Chandra

  Master of Mind-power and Healing through Dreams

  Amael

  Master of Herbal Medicines

  Hevron

  Gabriel’s tutor at the Academy of Navora

  Ferron

  Gabriel’s servant and friend at the Citadel

  Petra

  Empress of the Navoran Empire

  Advisers to the Empress

  Jaganath

  High Oracle and chief adviser to Empress; Gabriel’s enemy

  Nagay

  Commander of Navoran navy

  Kamos

  Commander of Navoran army; Gabriel’s enemy

  Sanigar

  Prophet and astrologer; Gabriel’s enemy

  Kanyiida

  High Priest; Gabriel’s enemy

  Cosimo

  High Judge, friend to Salverion and Gabriel

  Ashila

  Young woman of the Shinali people; a healer, loved by Gabriel

  Oboth

  Elderly chieftain of the Shinali people

  Tarkwan

  Elder son of Oboth

  Moondarri

  Tarkwan’s wife

  Yeshi

  Tarkwan’s younger brother

  Zalidas

  Priest of the Shinali

  Thandeka

  Ashila’s mother; a healer

  Razzak

  Commander of Taroth Fort

  Darshan

  The name Gabriel uses when hiding from the Navoran authorities

  1

  BROKEN IMAGES

  TREMBLING, THE BOY crouched in the shadow of the bridge. He pressed his hot, wet face against the ancient stones and fought to stop the waves of nausea that swept through him. Behind him towered the vast outer wall of the city, crimson-drenched in the sunset. From cobbled roads far beyond the wall came the rumble of chariot and wagon wheels, and the neighing of horses. The whole city of Navora seemed to vibrate and boom within its walls, like a mighty heart preparing for the night. There was something ominous in that quiet thundering, and the boy shrank from it, pressing himself harder against the bridge. He discovered a deep crevice in the stones and squeezed himself into it. Hidden, safe for the moment, he wiped his grubby hands across his eyes and enjoyed a momentary respite from his troubles.

  Glancing behind him, he saw the darker stones of the ancient northeast corner of the city, marking the outer confines of the prison. The stones in these mighty prison ramparts had only slits for windows. On the wide crests of the walls guards walked, crossbows gleaming as the sunset struck them. The boy shivered, thinking of the stories he had heard about the inside of that place. People never came out, it was said, except to be buried or
beheaded.

  Turning from the prison, he scanned the evening skies and the deserted banks of the River Cravan. The setting sun struck his eyes, changing their vivid, translucent blue to violet. His fair hair shone with red-gold lights, and clung about his wary face in long, damp curls. Satisfied that he was alone, he settled more comfortably into his hiding place and listened to the river gurgling over the rocks as it tumbled, close to the shadowed east wall, on its way to the sea. He could smell the sea, if he sniffed hard; could smell the rank odor of the oyster shells piled two hundred years deep along the beach, and the salty air blowing in from the ocean. He loved the sea and loved the times his father took him out on the oyster boats. It was wonderful to watch the young men and women dive deep, deep into the murky waters, and come up again with string baskets full of rough oyster shells. Some of the oysters would be sold for food in the marketplace, but many would be left in piles on the beach to putrefy. Much later Gabriel would sit on the beach with his father and watch the people remove the precious pearls from the soft rotting flesh.

  “These little stones,” his father had once said, holding one up into the sun, “these are what began this great city of ours. One day, over two hundred years ago, a great navigator came to this land, and he found barbarian fisherfolk dwelling in caves under the cliffs, living off whatever the sea could provide. The fisherfolk traded with the navigator. For knives and bows and arrows, they gave him some of the strange, pale pearls they fished from the sea. The navigator took the pearls back to his own country and told of the distant land they came from, with its beautiful harbor and clean blue waters. Then other people sailed here, built a village on the harbor edge, and fished for the pearls themselves, trading them with passing ships. They became very wealthy, for the pearls were much prized. More people came, and more, and took over the harbor and the coast. The tiny village became a town. But the barbarians didn’t want to share their fishing waters, and there was war between them and the newcomers. The barbarians lost and were driven away from the coast. The new town flourished. And now look at Navora: the largest port in the world. Center of all trade, all knowledge, all wealth. Center of the Empire. And at the heart of it, a little pearl. Never forget that, Gabriel. It’s what’s at the heart of things that matters.”

  Gabriel did not forget. But lately he had heard his father say that the oyster beds were becoming depleted, and the oyster business would not last much longer. Gabriel’s mother wanted to go inland to farm or grow an orchard, but his father was determined to put his wealth into trading ships, and to sail to alien lands. There was seldom harmony between his parents now, and Gabriel and his three younger brothers were in trouble more times than they were out of it. They had learned to creep about unseen and unheard, but this evening they had landed in trouble with a crash that had shaken the whole house and brought the slaves running.

  The boys had been playing with a ball inside, and Gabriel had got excited and thrown it so hard it bounced off a wall and toppled a marble statue from its pedestal. The statue had broken into pieces on the polished wooden floor. It was only a small image of the Empress Petra, but Gabriel’s father treasured it. He had always said that if a slave ever broke the statue, the culprit would pay for it with his life. He had not said what would happen if one of his own sons broke it, and Gabriel did not stay to find out. He had fled to this forbidden place outside the city walls, where even his father would never dream of looking for him. In this dangerous, desolate place, the river stank from the city’s sewage, diseased beggars came to die, and women abandoned their unwanted newly-borns. Here the city’s trash found its final home or was washed in the river’s flow out to the beaches beyond, where it rotted in the sun, was picked clean by gulls, or was sucked out to sea by the tide. For one wild moment the boy thought of throwing himself into the river, risking drowning in the ocean rather than discipline from his father. He struggled to stand, but his quivering limbs shook so much, he sank back into the shadows, defeated. He began to sob again, very quietly. Then he heard a sound and held his breath.

  Someone was moving down by the river. Small stones, dislodged, were tumbling down the steep bank. Someone was moving slowly, furtively. He crouched deeper into his nook, his heart pounding so loudly he thought the newcomer must surely hear it. But after a while the stealthy sounds stopped, and he heard only the swift flowing of the waters. Slowly, in total silence, he peered out around the old stones of the bridge.

  A woman was down by the river, washing her hands and wrists in the water. She crouched in shade, for the sun had almost set behind the city. The river and opposite rocky shore were indistinct in the dusk. Past the shore the land rose steeply to the hills, purple as the night deepened, their upper slopes brushed with gold from the sun’s last rays. On the highest hill, surrounded by the green of gardens and vineyards, shone the Citadel, institute of the most advanced knowledge in the world. Above it a full moon ascended, the color of apricot. A few stars were out.

  The woman still crouched by the water, washing. In the waning light Gabriel could see that a chain or rope dangled from her wrists. She wore a single long brown garment, dull and roughly woven, unlike the shining silk and bright linen the city women wore; and her black hair fell unbound to her waist. For a few minutes she crouched there washing her hands and trying to remove whatever it was that had tied them.

  From high on the rocky path leading from the city came the sound of men’s voices and boisterous laughter. The woman leaped to her feet, and Gabriel cringed into his nook. He heard the men drawing nearer, talking and chuckling. Their voices were slurred, and they stumbled often on the uneven ground. There was a sound of someone falling, and glass breaking on rock. A man swore, and others laughed. Then one of them mentioned the woman, and there was laughter again, as well as a few lewd comments. The men came nearer, and Gabriel could hear their boots slipping on the stones, and their heavy breathing as they struggled down the rocks to the river shore. As they passed his hiding place, he closed his eyes and held his breath. The odor of wine and stale sweat came to him on the still air. He heard them go on down to the water’s edge. He heard the woman cry out, and stones scattering as people raced over them. The men were laughing and swearing. The woman yelled at them in an unknown language, her voice strong and defiant. There were sounds of running again, and stones being thrown. Then the woman screamed, and the men cheered. There was the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

  From the summit of the prison wall a guard shouted. The men by the river were silent. The woman called out once. The boy gathered up his courage. He looked upward, ready to call for help. But at that moment the guard was joined by another, and the two walked away to a different part of the prison roof. After a while the noises by the river continued. The male voices became low and brutal.

  Gabriel covered his head with his arms. He could hardly breathe for terror. The sound of his own heart thundered in his ears, and he was certain the men would drag him out, too, and murder him. After a time he uncovered his ears and listened again. But they had not murdered her; the woman was still alive, for he could hear her groans and sobs. She was saying the same thing over and over again, her voice high and anguished: “Kaath sharleema . . . Kaath sharleema . . .” The men were mainly silent, but every now and again there was rough laughter, and the men applauded one another and used words Gabriel had never heard before. And all the time the woman moaned and begged, and said her strange words.

  As the boy listened, sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes and trickled down his body until his woollen tunic was wet. He was trembling again and wanted to vomit. He wished he could not hear, and he was afraid not to. The sounds went on and on, until the night was black except for the cold silver splendor of the moon. Still the boy hid, not moving a muscle lest the men find him. He remained motionless in his hollow, even long after the men staggered back up the rocks and vanished through the narrow door at the base of the city wall.

  The dawn sky was orange above the h
ills when the boy slid out of his hiding place and began to creep across the stones toward the city wall. Then he stopped. The woman was still down by the river. She was moaning softly, sobbing and saying things in an alien tongue. He crept down to her. Then he stopped a short distance away, horrified.

  In the glimmering dawn he saw that she was lying on her side, curled into herself. She was naked. They had cut off her long hair, and what was left stood up like dark spikes. She was quivering all over. Her back was bruised from the rocks, and her legs were smeared with blood. The boy moved around to stand in front of her. She heard him and cried out. Then she saw that it was a child, and she reached out a hand toward him. Her hands, too, had blood on them, and one of her arms was bent crookedly against her body. Bone protruded through the skin.

  “Sharleema,” she whispered.

  Her hand was still outstretched, pleading. Her skin was deep olive, and she wore armbands of bone. Knotted tight about her wrists were the frayed remains of a rope. Her arms were stained with blood. Glancing at her face, the boy saw that her eyes were black and beautiful. Her features were unlike those of the women of the city. There was a wild, dark beauty about her, and the boy realized, with a shock, that she was of the Shinali people, the barbarians who lived beyond the hills. He saw that her throat had been scratched with a knife, and blood trickled into the hollows of her shoulders and neck. Above her left breast was a strange spiraling mark, colored deep blue, and the stylized image of a bird.

  “Tortan qui, sharleema,” she entreated him, her voice breaking.