by Jane Yolen
“This is all there be to our army,” Piet interrupted. “Good men. Brave. Loyal. None better. But they be all.”
Catrona nodded her head, as if counting.
Jenna nodded, too, adding, “But what can we do? We are but six bodies more. Yet we are ready to help, if it means helping the sisters.”
Piet cleared his throat as if preparing to speak, but it was the king who did the talking. “Already the men are speaking about you. The White One. The Anna. Who made the Bull and Hound bow low. They have recalled the old stories all afternoon.”
“Good men they be,” Piet added, “but not cautious in their beliefs.”
“You do not believe I am the Anna,” Jenna said, both relieved and a bit annoyed.
“Belief is an old dog in a new collar,” Piet said.
“There are the signs,” Carum said, putting his hand up and counting them out on his fingers. “The three mothers, the white hair, the Bull and the Hound, the …”
“You do not need to convince me, little brother,” the king said. “I know how much we need her. As does Piet. Our belief is not necessary here. But for the men …”
“If we had the Anna,” Piet added, “think how many others would join us just to march by her side.”
“But I am the ending before I am the beginning,” Jenna pointed out. “Remember, that is in the story, too.”
“We have already had enough endings,” the king said, slapping his bad leg. “My father is dead. Murdered. My stepmother, too. My older brother killed foully in his bath, his blood mixing with the soapy water. So I am king now in truth. But that toad, Kalas, sits upon the throne, poisoning the very air he breathes with his piji breath, while we are forced to live in these ruins and make due with a rock for a throne.” His voice roughened as he spoke, his eyes narrowing until they were smudges on his face.
Jenna thought once again that he looked like a wolf, or a dog let run too long in the woods.
“You have had a lot of endings, too,” Carum reminded Jenna gently.
Remembering the women, their tunics and aprons stiff with blood, laid side by side in the ruined Hames, Jenna shuddered.
Gorum added, as an afterthought, “Yes, the senseless slaughter of the women in ten Hames. The rape of their daughters.” He spoke the words slowly, articulating them with care, but his voice growing raspy again at the finish. “Is that ending enough for you, Anna?”
“Ten?” It was Catrona. “Ten Hames?” Her eyes stared unseeing.
“I do not know,” Jenna whispered. “I do not know what is enough.” She reached out and touched Catrona’s shoulder.
Gorum smiled his wolfish smile. “It will be enough for these men. Enough so that they will gladly follow their king. And their queen. For that is in the story as well.”
“No!” Carum cried, understanding before anyone else.
“There must be some sign,” the king said slowly, as if talking to children, “some sign for the men here and now. What better sign—than a wedding. My father married a woman of the Dales. And so can I.”
“Never!” Carum cried again. “You cannot think it.”
“I think what is necessary, brother,” Gorum said. “I think what is best for the kingdom. That is what a king does. That is what a king has to do. That is why you would make a terrible king and it is lucky for the Dales that I am still alive.”
“Nevertheless, you shall not force her,” Carum said.
“I shall do what must be done.” Gorum was no longer smiling. “And so shall you. And so shall she.”
For a moment they were all silent, so silent the birdsong seemed like a battle cry. Then Jenna spoke.
“Never! There is nothing here for you.” She struck herself on the breast with a closed fist.
Gorum leaned toward her. “My dear child,” he said softly, “the first lesson in kingship my father taught me was that In the council of kings the heart has little to say. There is nothing in here”—he struck himself on the chest—“for you either. I love you only through my little brother’s eyes. But the people will love you, for your white hair and your history. Kingship is all symbols and signs.”
“No!” Jenna said. “You cannot make me. If you do, you would be no better than the toad on the throne, for all your breath is sweeter. What good is kingship if the heart cannot speak aloud?”
“She is right,” Catrona said. “And while you talked much to me this past hour, you said nothing about any marriage.”
“The weddings of kings do not concern you, woman of the Hames,” Gorum said, turning sharply toward her.
Before Catrona could answer, Petra had moved into the center of the circle, her voice pitched in the strange priestess tone. “As long as men speak to women thus, the ending is not yet reached, whether one Hame is gone. Or ten. Or all.”
“Right!” Marek shouted.
“This is our fight as well as yours, Majesty,” Catrona said. “Indeed, it was our fight first.”
“First before Kalas stole the throne? Never!” exclaimed the king.
“First when Garuns be stealing our land,” Sandor said, as surprised as any of them at his outburst.
Hand to his throat, Jareth strained to speak, but what warning he had to give remained unsaid.
“First or last,” Carum said, his hand lightly resting on Jenna’s shoulder, “our kingship will not be bought back with such a coin.”
“My kingdom, brother. Not yours. Do not forget it. My kingdom until I die. And my heirs thereafter.”
“I will not be the king’s bride,” Jenna said. “Nor give him heirs. No matter what the prophecy.”
Petra intruded with the same strange oracular voice. “On the slant,” she intoned. “Prophecy must always be read on the slant. We read it through slotted eyes or we read it wrong.”
“Still, there must be a sign,” the king said, trying to snatch back the momentum along with the power. “And this sign …”
“I know what sign the men be taking,” Piet said suddenly. “It is not weddings that claim them.” He wheeled from their circle and called out to the restless men. “Come. Come witness the White One’s return.”
They gathered uneasily, a great crowded circle around the smaller one.
Piet went over to one man, whispering hurriedly in his ear. The man nodded once and, unsmiling, pushed through the circle.
“Tell them,” Piet said softly to the king. “Tell them who she is. They’ll know her soon enow.”
The king held up his hand and there was an immediate silence. Jenna thought it a miracle that so many men could keep so still.
“You have heard of Her,” the king began. “And spoken of Her.”
Without thinking, Jenna stood straighter, shoulders back, head high.
“She is the White One.”
Petra broke in, her soft voice pitched loud enough so that all could hear her: “And the prophet says a white babe with black eyes shall be born unto a virgin in the winter of the year. The ox in the field, the hound at the hearth, the bear in the cave, the cat in the tree, all, all shall bow before her, singing …”
The men who were Garunian joined her, in the same singsong manner. “… Holy, holy, holiest of sisters, who is both black and white, both dark and light, your coming is the beginning and it is the end.”
Petra completed the speaking of the prophecy alone. “Three times shall her mother die and three times shall she be orphaned and she shall be set apart that all shall know her.”
“She is white and dark,” cried out a man from the crowd.
“And I heard her talk of three mothers,” another shouted.
“And …” the king said, “it was her sword that slew the Hound, dropping him into a lonely grave, to rescue Prince Carum.”
There was a moment of silence; then suddenly the men shouted as one, “The Hound!”
“And her sword cut off the hand of the Bull, Kalas’ great pet ox, who later died wasting of the green illness,” the king continued.
This time there was no sile
nce. “The Bull!” they shouted back at him.
Just then the man Piet had sent away pushed through the crowd leading the lumbering, bound captive by the front of his shirt.
Piet whispered hurriedly in the king’s ear and the king smiled slowly. Jenna did not like that smile.
“The prophecy says the ox and the hound, the bear and the cat, shall bow before her, singing …” The king held his hand high.
“Down. Down. Down,” the men began to chant as Piet pushed the bound Bear to his knees before the king, pulling his shirt open so that the mat of black chest hair showed.
“Sing, you bastard,” shouted the king. “Sing.”
The Bear looked up and spit on the king’s right hand, silencing the men. Piet drew his sword. The Bear grinned at him. Piet nodded twice, then turned and handed the sword to Jenna.
“Kill him. Kill him now, girl. Then they will follow ye for e’er and ye can marry who ye will!”
Jenna hefted the sword in both hands. It was twice as heavy as her own. She walked over to the kneeling man and stared at him.
“What do you say?” she whispered into his upturned face.
“I say you are Alta’s bitch,” he answered. “And no better than the dogs who follow when you are in heat. Strike now for you will not have the chance again.”
She raised the sword above her head, drew in three latani breaths and began to count the hundred-chant to steady herself. Before ten were done, she felt again the strange lightening and she pulled out of her body to stare down at the scene below. There was the kneeling prisoner, laughing up into her face, with Piet, Carum and the king at his back, and the larger crowd of the king’s ragtag army and her friends before him. Beyond, smelling the rising excitement, the hobbled horses stirred restlessly.
Jenna felt herself drawn toward the three men at the Bear’s back, away from the heat of the crowd. Her translucent fingers reached down to touch them one at a time on the very center of the skull. Piet was a solid white flame, the colors unchanging. The king was a cylinder of blue-white ice that burned to the touch. And Carum …
She hesitated before touching Carum. She remembered how he had felt the other time she had let herself be pulled into him at Nill’s Hame; how she had been drawn past pockets that were restful and pockets filled with a wild, alien heat. She had fled back into the air again, grateful to be unconsumed by his passions.
But she was stronger now. She reached out, touched him, and let herself fall.
He seemed deeper than before, with more pockets. There were the restful ones, the fretful ones, and ones filled with strange, engaging objects for which she had no name. The alien heat was there still, but somehow it did not frighten her now. Down and down, as if there was no end to him, as if she could explore forever.
Forever. She did not have forever. Her arms ached. She suddenly recalled the sword she was holding. Leaping into her body again, she stared down into the Bear’s leering face.
“Kill him … kill him … kill him …” The chant was unrelenting. Jenna felt her arms shaking. Slowly she lowered the sword. When its point rested lightly on the Bear’s chest, over the heart, she frowned.
The men were suddenly silent. The Bear’s eyes were wide, preparing to look directly at his death. The entire clearing hushed, as if drawing a single breath, waiting.
“I … I cannot kill him this way,” Jenna whispered. She took a step back and let the sword point drift slowly toward the ground.
The Bear’s head went back. He roared and the roar turned into a laugh. Then he stared at Jenna. “I would not be so foolish, little bitch. What will your hunting pack do to you now?”
“They will do what they will,” Jenna said to him quietly. “But if I am no better than you, then the ending is indeed at hand. With no beginning after.” She dropped the sword and walked away.
Carum followed, the men parting to let them through. Only Jareth was smiling.
They walked silently past the broken walls, across the road, and into the trees. Jenna sagged against the thick trunk of an oak and bit her lower lip. Still she said nothing. When Carum reached out to touch her shoulder, she shrugged away his touch.
“No,” she whispered.
“I understand.”
“How can you understand when I do not understand myself.”
“Jenna, you’re thirteen going on forever. How could you possibly kill an unarmed man?”
“He is no man. He is a monster.”
“He is a murderer. He is a slayer of women. He is a slaughterer of children. He is beyond saving.” Carum’s voice was steady. “But he is a man.”
“And I am but a woman?”
“No—you are the Anna. You’re better than he is. Than Gorum is. Than we all are.”
“No, I am just me. Jenna. Jo-an-enna. A woman of the Hames. A woman of the Dales. Do not make me more than I am. My Mother Alta once called me a tree shading the little flowers—but I am not such a tree.”
Carum smiled slowly at her. It was the face of the boy she remembered. “To me you are no tree, no flower, no goddess. You are Jenna. I kissed you once and I know. But for all of them you are The Anna. And when you put on Her mantle, you are more than just Jenna.”
“Jenna could not kill a bound man whatever the Anna might do.”
“Jen, the Anna is the best you are. And better. She wouldn’t have slain him that way, either.”
She leaned over and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Thank you, Carum. Your brother is wrong: you should be king.” Then, before he could make more than a slight sound, she turned and walked back across the road.
He had to run to catch up.
The large circle of men had broken into many smaller, knotted groups, arguing loudly. The bound prisoner was nowhere to be seen. Jenna found Catrona in the middle of one of the loudest circles, her hands moving rapidly as if they were a second and third argument.
“Catrona!” Jenna called.
The men in the circle turned and, seeing her, seemed to shrink away, leaving her face-to-face with Catrona.
“One thrust, Jenna,” Catrona said. “One thrust and we would have had them. I taught you that stroke with this hand.” She held up her right hand. “And now all that training for naught.”
“You also taught me that in the Book of Light it is written that: To kill is not to cure. Surely that means killing a bound man.”
“Do not quote the Book to me like some petty priestess,” Catrona said. “The Book also says: A stroke may save a limb. Like any maunderings of holy writ, the Book can say whatever you want it to say.” She was shaking with anger. “Jenna, you must think. Think. We need these men. We need this army. We need this king. I would not have you marry him to get his followers. But Piet was right. There was another, a better, way. And the Bear will be killed eventually—by this angry crowd, as like as not. If you had done it then, coldly and with great flourish, it would have fed the tale.”
“I am no story,” Jenna cried. “I am no tale. I am real. I feel. I hurt. I bleed. I cannot just kill without conscience.”
“A warrior has no conscience until after the war is done,” Catrona said.
Jenna put her face in her hands and wept.
Catrona turned away.
The moon rose, pale and thin, over the ruined Hame, climbing until it crowned the kitchen chimney. Jenna stood alone while throughout the encampment the arguments raged.
“You were right,” came a voice from behind her.
Turning slowly, she saw Skada.
“And you were wrong,” Skada said.
“How can I be both?”
“You should not have killed him, but you could have done it with words that would have still made them believe.”
“What words?” Jenna asked.
“You might have said: The Bull has bowed down, he need not die by my hand.”
Jenna nodded. “And I could have said the moon is black, but I did not.”
Nodding back, Skada laughed. “No, you did not. And now
, my dear Anna, who is both dark”—she pointed to herself—“and light”—she pointed to Jenna—“you are in a fix.”
“We are in a fix,” Jenna amended.
“So now it is we! At last you are including me, sharing the burden, parceling out the guilt.” Skada’s mouth twisted with amusement.
“How can you laugh at such a time?”
“Jenna, there is always time to laugh. And part of you is laughing already, which is why I can. I am not other than you. I am you.”
“Well, I do not feel like laughing,” Jenna said miserably.
“Well, I do,” said Skada. She put back her head and let out a delighted roar of laughter.
Unable to help herself, Jenna did the same.
“There,” Skada said, “feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Not at all?” Skada grinned.
“You are impossible,” Jenna said, shaking her head.
Imitating her, Skada shook her own head. “No, I am not impossible. I am hungry. Let us find something to eat.”
Arm in arm, they walked toward the kitchen.
Jareth stopped them halfway. He tried to talk with his hands, painstakingly spelling out his concerns. His frantic fingers wove complicated messages, but all Jenna could read was a warning.
“The cat …” Jenna said.
“The bull …” Skada added.
Jareth’s eyes pleaded with them, his throat straining with the effort to speak.
“We will be careful,” Jenna promised. “Do not worry. You have warned us well.” When they were away from him, Jenna whispered, “I would cut that collar from his neck and let him speak.”
“Whatever the consequences?” Skada asked.
“Whatever the consequences.” Jenna’s face was tight with anger. “How can Alta’s magic be good when it punishes Her followers and Her enemies equally? Ten Hames gone. Jareth silenced. We are made murderers and monsters in Her name.”
“And heroes,” Skada said.
Jenna turned suddenly to face Skada. “Look around, sister. Look with care. Do you see any heroes here?”
They looked together. By the kitchen’s chimney stood the king, a cup in his hand. He was staring sullenly into it as if he read some unhappy future there. By his side towered two guards in dirt brown tunics and torn trews. One was polishing his blade with his sleeve. Around the fires that blossomed throughout the compound were groups of men drinking and telling stories. Near the gate, a small fire illuminated the smudged faces of Petra and the boys. She was describing something with her hands. In a far corner, where the ruins of a staircase still acended five steps into the air, sat Piet. On one side of him was Catrona, on the other Karri. They were both whispering into his ears. Smiling, he stretched his arms out and enfolded them both in his embrace. They stood together and walked off down the road in the moonlight.
