Free The Days of the Deer by Liliana Bodoc Page B

Dulkancellin slept. The Husihuilke warrior trusted in
the sharpness of his hearing. The Zitzahay was no longer thinking of trying to escape. Yet both of them spent the entire night awake, until at last dawn came. The sky at the Ends of the Earth
barely grew light, changing from black to dark grey. The household was up very early: they had much to do, and very little time. Dulkancellin realized he could not keep a proper watch on the
Zitzahay, and so had decided to tie him more securely. Taking a leather thong, he had skilfully wrapped it round his hands several times until he could not move them. He was about to do the same
with his feet, but thought it over for a moment and decided not to. It was not necessary.
    Cucub had spent most of the day tied up like this, thinking it would have been good to be able to play his pan-pipes. The rain came lashing down all the time. The morning went by. Midday
arrived, but brought with it no more than a faint glow in the sky. Then the afternoon slowly dragged by: so slowly for the Zitzahay! No one had spoken to him the whole day: they had scarcely
exchanged a few words with each other. If only the beautiful one with long tresses would speak to him!
    By now evening was drawing in. Cucub was beginning to feel tired. He tried to rouse himself by watching what the Husihuilke family was doing, but achieved only the opposite: the repeated
polishing of the arrow-heads and the leather acted on him like a sleeping potion. The more he watched, the heavier his head felt, the more his eyes smarted. Why not sleep? thought Cucub, close to
dozing off. If he fell asleep, he might dream of Mother Neén and his distant jungle. Slumped over, in his dreams the prisoner saw himself back in his own hammock. It was so good to be there!
Lying in it, rocked by the fragrant night breeze, Cucub was folding tobacco leaves as he watched the moon glide through the palm trees. He was out in the jungle once more, thinking that at first
light he would go to the market to eat some spicy fish. But this happy sensation soon deserted him when his uncomfortable position woke him with a start. He slowly stretched his aching neck. He
could not stay awake without wanting to cry. Everything he could see made him sad: the walls, the oil lamps, and these people he could have been friends with. Cucub decided it was better not to
fall asleep again.
I’ll sing instead
, he thought.
    I crossed over to the far bank
    And the river took care of me
    So I was not afraid.
    I asked the tree if I could
    Climb to its highest branch;
    I saw things far in the distance
    But I am a man
    And so I climbed down
    And walked on the ground again.
    Just as he was finishing his song, Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén also completed their task. They both stared at the Zitzahay.
    ‘Your hands!’ their grandmother reminded them. They took a handful of ashes out of a pot by the fire and rubbed their forearms to remove all the grease. Then they went out to rinse
their arms, and finally spread some oil on them.
    ‘Hmm... that smells good even from here,’ said Cucub, trying to engage them in conversation. His previous attempts that afternoon had proved fruitless. This time was different,
however. Kuy-Kuyen and Wilkilén came over and sat on either side of him.
    ‘Who taught you that song you were singing?’ Kuy-Kuyen asked.
    ‘No one,’ replied Cucub. ‘It’s my song, I made it up. Up there in the Remote Realm everyone has their own song. We invent them the day we become adults, and then they go
with us for the rest of our lives.’
    ‘Sing it again,’ Kuy-Kuyen begged him.
    The Zitzahay did not hesitate. He cleared his throat and began:
    I crossed the other river
    And the tree took care of me
    So I was not afraid.
    I asked the man if I could
    And climbed to the top,
    I saw things in the distance.
    But I am a river bank
    So I began again to walk
    On the ground.
    ‘That’s not the same song!’ Kuy-Kuyen protested. ‘It’s not the same as the