Estuary 10

I took the tea from Pumala, my first thought there was something wrong with it, but I set my face and sat up. It was warm and earthy and I drank it down, leaving the last sip of pestled powder in the bottom, my face flush, skritching between my shoulder blades on the stone wall behind me. I pushed my notebooks away from the kerosene lamp and turned it up. With that I heard music, a heavy drum and flute emitting distant sounds from some Jurassic maw. Pumala backed away. His smile was like a dropped deck of cards. Draped over his shoulders there was a garland of leaves, each one a kite-shaped plate. I expected, if Pumala turned around, to see them in twin rows growing from his back.

"Congratulations on your victory," I said. "I'd have given you a better fight but the doctor says I'm not allowed to lift anything bigger than a rail car. Your skills are nothing to sneeze at. You know what's one of your best features? You have a healthy grip. I bet you could fling an epileptic sperm whale."

"Are you feeling okay, Mr. Roché?" Pumala asked.

"Delightful. Now that my organs are compacted, I can be a donor for a dwarf."

"Your challenge was a great honor. It made me happy. After the matches we tell the tales of battle. We do not make war like the fathers of our fathers did, but the children of my children will know this day. When it is my turn I will stand before the village and tell them."

"I too was honored," I said. Politeness spoke the words but longing gave them weight. I'd be asked about this trip over pretzel sticks in the break room. I'd have ten minutes to convey, what? It was hopeless.

Pumala tilted his head. "The tales are in the air, now. They arrest even the creatures in the jungle. The earth and sky, which can never know the other's touch, are once a year linked by words. The words of the history of our people. In this time a man may ascend to heaven as easy as he walks to the river to bathe. In the same way, a fickle chattering spirit may journey to the world of man. The tale I have concerns this. It is of a herd of swine possessed by spirits. Malu bade me bring it to you."

"I thought Malu was the only one who spoke my language," I said.

"Though we live far from what is modern, the river is our highway, and our village is one stop along it," Pumala said. "Malu has his ways."