I Am M’urgi/on B’yurngrad
Night on B’yurngrad. A steppe wide as an ocean, rustling with grass. Far in the night a broken horizon surmounted by a toenail of moon and a spear blade of dew-bright stars, pointing downward at the cleft between two hills.
“See,” whispered the old woman, reaching to untie the long plait in which her hair was usually confined. “See,” fingers moving upward through that hair, casting it forward, letting it move in the wind to blow like a veil before her eyes. “See, there, where the spear points downward, where the lance falls to reach the heart of water…”
“I see,” I, who had been Margaret; I, M’urgi, whispered.
“This is the sign of the hunters, the skull-faced ones, who go wandering in the night. When this sign comes, they come eastward, running in the grasses. In this time when there are no wolves, they are the wolves of the night, they the tigers, the leopards, the swift-footed hunters. Prick your ears to the wind.”
I listened. At first I heard nothing. The old woman’s hand touched my ear, featherlight, and I heard. Through the wind-rustled grasses came the pant of breath, the fall of foot, the small rattle of bone beads strung on thong. One, at first, then several more.
“I hear,” I murmured.
“How many?”
“Five, maybe six, but if six, the other is far off, following.”
“If six, he is the one we want. Find him.”
I closed my eyes, laid my hands palms upward on my knees, straightened my spine as though it were a cannon barrel, and shot my perception upward, through the top of my skull. Looking down, I saw myself, the old woman, the tiny fire before us, the circle of amber light that ended just beyond our haunches. I laid myself forward upon a dark pillow of air to follow the night road, the road of discovery, sending my thought in the direction of the sound, swooping along the dark air to meet it, even as it moved to meet me.
I came first upon the five skull-painted ones, panting down a narrow cleft between two hills, feet thudding on the soil, one well in advance of the others, a long pole carried over his shoulder with a pouch of something at its tip, then three more men, then a laggard. The sixth was farther back, nearer the place they had begun, and I flew toward him, sensing the old woman at my side.
Almost we missed the child. A boy, perhaps ten or eleven. Not yet come to strength, certainly, howsoever he burned with purpose, the hard red glow of it easily visible, even from our height.
“M’urgi, if this one lives,” the old woman whispered, “over a thousand will die, for he will betray them and their good purpose. I have seen it.”
“How many times?” I asked.
“Ten times watched, five times seen.”
“Then it is equally likely he will not do the thing.”
“I will be dead before the time comes,” whispered the old woman. “I pass the burden to you, M’urgi. It lies before you.”
I shivered in the chill dark, in fear of night, in grasp of bloodshed, in danger of being mistaken. A long moment went by before I said, “I accept the burden.”
The night road retracted beneath us. The sky opened and dropped us beside the dim coals of our fire, which we covered with ashes before sitting down once more.
“What did the lead man carry,” I asked, “at the end of that long pole?”
“Ghyrm,” replied my teacher. “Ghyrm to use against another tribe, one he wants to do away with so he can take the women.”
“Will the ghyrm take only men?”
“The ghyrm will take those they are purposed to take.”
“Where did he get it?” I whispered.
“He bought it with pain, from someone who sells for pain. From Cantardene, most likely. Hush. They come.”
Five runners approached, darting past not far from us, eyes set on their own road, sparing no glance that might have discovered two smoke-faced, black-garbed women hidden downwind in the dark. The air moved to me, and I smelled their sweat. When they had gone, I built up the fire once more. Much later, another footfall, this time interrupted.
“Hey, boy,” I said. “Where you goin’ in the night?”
He spun, frantic, relaxing when he saw us women sitting there, amber light reflecting from our faces. “Find m’dah,” he said wearily. “I trail ’m this fah.”
“And where’s he gone, then?” I asked.
“Dunno. D’wanna be lef wit de women. No more.”
“Ah! Fahr sure.” I patted the ground beside the fire, inviting him. “He’ll be mazed, he will, come back this way and find how far you come! That’s a clevah idea.”
“Is’t?” he asked doubtfully. He had not considered whether it was clever or not. He had only thought of his shame, being left behind with the women, the babies. “Yeah,” he claimed, inflating his chest as he approached the fire. “Is clevah. D’you hab watah?”
“Hab tea,” I murmured, seating him by the flame, guiding his hands to wrap around the crude mug. “Y’know, some dahs don tell reasons propahly. You dah tell you his reasons, leavin’ you?”
The boy spoke from inside the teacup. “Nah.”
“Thot so. Prob’ly somethin goin on back in camp, your dah, he wants to know ’bout it. He wants to know do you keep you eyes open, you mouf shut. He can leave no mahn dere, for watchin. He can leave a son, though, son old enuf, smart enuf to watch. Thas prob’ly what he thinks.”
The boy put the cup down, obviously in the grip of unaccustomed thought. “You spose? An I muck it all?”
I, M’urgi, shrugged. “You make it back in time, he nevah know. An, if he ast, did somethin happen, you say nothin happen or somethin happen, jus the way you see it.”
I was speaking to the air. The cup lay empty and the boy was gone, back along the trail. The old woman said, “He may not make it back, tired as he is.”
“He’ll make it back,” I said. “I’ve seen it.”
“Ah. And when did that happen.”
“Last night. You took us along the night road to the north. I saw the encampment there, saw the coming shadow cover it, heard the second wife buying poison from a traveler, saw the boy lying behind a bush, listening. Same boy.”
The old woman smiled, though wearily. “I didn’t see it.”
“You were far ahead, scanning for whatever it is we’re always looking for.”
“It’s ghyrm we’re always seeking, and those who sell them,” the old woman said with a touch of annoyance. “And you didn’t mention the boy.”
I nodded, familiar enough with her to be unmoved by her irritation. “It meant nothing, until tonight. Who are they, Wolf-mother?”
“The hunters? Followers of the ghyrm-way since the first bondsmen came from Cantardene. On that planet some evil creature taught them this way they follow: brother against brother, family against family, tribe against tribe, never a peace long enough for them to grow numerous, but with strong taboos on killing the women so they can always recover their strength. Faces painted like skulls to show they fear no death, for he who dies for honor goes to the place of Joy. Death and honor lovers. That’s what moved the boy on the trail, honor.”
“He will tell his father about the second wife. What will his father do?”
“Fly and see,” the old woman whispered. “If you care enough to spend yourself on them. If you ask only for my guess, well then, the father will watch to see what she does. And she, she will try to poison him, so her own son can take that boy’s place. And the man, he’ll be so angry, instead of crying her crime aloud and sending her back to her family in shame, he will forget the taboos and will kill her. Her family will kill him for breaking the taboos. His brothers will kill her brothers. They will be much preoccupied with killing one another, and larger conflicts will pass them by. The boy will not be responsible for a thousand lives. Perhaps.”
“To what purpose?”
The old woman shook her head. “We can see tomorrow, even next season or, for some things, a year. Farther than that, the road of discovery becomes a path of s
hadows, mere shades of portents of things uncertain. I saw that boy lead a raid a year from now, down from the hills into a village. I saw everyone in that village dead. Ten times I saw, five times I saw them dead. Perhaps in that possibility, the wife had killed her husband, the boy had laid blame and sought revenge. Whatever. It is your burden now, your duty to crouch over the fire and see.”
“Is this why they sent me, Wolf-mother? Is this my life?”
“Only those who sent you know why, M’urgi. Only they know what your life will be, though I have seen a shadow on it…”
“What sort of shadow?”
“One that kills. Someone wants you dead, M’urgi. Sometime. Not yet, but sometime. In the meantime, there are more chants for you to learn, and more herbs for you to pick, and many futures for you to see…”
I laughed, without rancor but without amusement, either. My hands and face were black with soot from the fire. My hair felt as though several generations of birds had been nesting in it, leaving their lice behind. The hides that warmed me stank to high heaven. I had been with the old shaman woman for almost ten years. Whatever my unknown benefactors might expect of me in the future, I sincerely hoped it involved bathing at more regular intervals.
And, ah, it would be nice to see Ferni again.
“You’re thinking about him,” said the old woman in a minatory tone.
“I have seen myself with him elsewhere, Wolf-mother. In a dream I saw myself among the tribes, many tribes, all gathered together. And he came out of darkness into light, carrying something mysterious. Then I blinked, and when I looked up, I saw my own face, three times. One me a lot like me. One me much older. And one me looking out of a man’s face.”
“Thinking of him, dreaming of him, that’ll get you killed,” said the old woman.
“How long since you’ve had to warn me of that, Mother.”
“A year or two,” she replied grudgingly. “Maybe more.”
“Maybe many more. You speak of dying. I have sworn to fulfill your burdens. When I have done so, then, perhaps, I may think of him? Find him in that place I dreamed of, among the tribes.”
“Then,” came the reply, a whisper in the night. “Only then. Perhaps.”
I Am Margaret/on Tercis
On Rueday, all the Judsons are present in the Ruehouse, from me, Dr. Bryan’s widow, Grandma Mackey, right down to Mayleen’s daughter, Emmaline, youngest of the fourteen who’d been born to Mayleen, the ten who had survived. Though I have been Ruing for close to forty years now, I am still unable to confine my ruing to Rueday. Ever since Bryan died, I have stood here each Rueday, between my daughter Maybelle and my granddaughter Gloriana, eyes tight shut, hands twisting at one another, body trembling like a branch of autumn leaves in a chill wind while I rue having let Bryan sacrifice himself for me. Not that Bryan is the only thing I rue. I rue the twins, oh, the twins, my two sets of them, Maybelle’s one set, Mayleen’s seven sets—not even including all the ones miscarried or born dead. Oh, for how many years have I rued, and still I wish I could go back and undo it all.
In the pew behind me, Mayleen was ruing having a sister and a sister’s family who were so rotten to her. Marriage and motherhood had not changed Mayleen; they had merely confirmed her misery. Billy Ray Judson was probably ruing that his brother had ever been born, for Billy Ray was as Billy Ray had ever been, jealous and hateful.
The seven Billy Ray Judson children who still lived in Rueful would be spending their ruetime as they did most of the rest of their time. Each Rueday I told their names over to myself. The eldest, Joe Bob, had left home to work on the Conover Farm, down The Valley. Perhaps he was ruing the fact he had not joined his twin in volunteering for the army. The second oldest twins had left years ago. Ella May had applied for membership in the Siblinghood of Silence and been accepted. Janine Ruth, her sister, had also applied and been refused, so had moved up to Repentance, which had more scope for her talents, which I refused to think about. Only one of the third set of twins had lived, Benny Paul, who was probably spending ruetime planning how to get Jeff, Gloriana’s brother, into trouble. Trish, the survivor of the fourth set, who was simple but not asexual, was probably thinking of whatever boy was currently making use of her. Sue Elaine and Lou Ellen had made up the fifth set, and Sue Elaine was without doubt ruing the existence of her cousin, Gloriana Judson; while little Orvie John and even littler Emmaline, each sole survivors, rued the fact they had been given no breakfast this morning and probably no supper last night and were so hungry it was very hard to be quiet. The moment I laid eyes on them this morning I knew the money I had most recently given their mother had not been spent on food! Poor babies.
I knew them so well. I did not know them at all.
Next to me, I knew that Maybelle was resolving to be more patient with her twin. James Joseph Judson, Billy Ray’s half brother, Maybelle’s husband and Gloriana’s father, was probably ruing not chastising his son Til, who was becoming more and more like Benny Paul. Til’s twin, Jeff, was conscientiously ruing whatever iniquities Til and Benny Paul had got him into most recently. He always rued saying yes; he always said yes because Til was his brother.
Maybelle’s daughter, barely pubescent Gloriana, usually had a lengthy list to rue, I’d seen her look up attentively when Pastor Grievy asked us to rue “…the great failing of our people in the long ago…” and I wagered with myself she was trying to figure that out. Gloriana was a great one for figuring things out.
I knew them so well, and I really did, even Til. They were family, while Mayleen’s husband and children seemed more foreign than a tribe of Frossians. Or yaboons.
The choir voices began a slow diminuendo.
In the next pew, Abe Johnson had his eyes tightly closed. He usually spent double the average time ruing his mail-order wife, who had vanished, leaving him with her son, Bamber Joy, an event Abe would never understand if he rued the whole matter for a hundred years. Even he, however, eventually felt Pastor Grievy’s tightly focused gaze boring through his eyelids, and with a sigh, lifted his head. The words were spoken, and we slowly left the Ruehouse.
People walked to and from services on Rueday as a minor religious thing, only faintly colored by notions of expiation or propriety. Most people who felt reasonably well did it out of habit unless the weather was intolerable, which it rarely was. All Tercis’s extremes, either icy or furnace-hot, had been reserved for the coldhearted and the hot-tempered; the Rueful had been granted a Walled-Off with a pleasant climate.
The Judson clan gathered briefly at the Ruehouse steps. I touched Mayleen’s shoulder. “Have you heard from Ella Mae, Mayleen?”
“Of course not.” She shrugged my arm away. “She’s in the Siblinghood of Silence, so she’s silent so far as her family is concerned.”
“I thought she might have a furlough this summer.”
“Not with us, she won’t. Last time was enough.” She stalked off after Billy Ray, while I furtively gave the two little ones the cookies I had brought in my pocket. As quickly as a squirrel hides nuts in his mouth, they hid the cookies in their raggedy clothes. As Billy Ray led his brood westward on the highway toward the bridge that would take them across to their farm on the west side of the river, I saw them breaking off little pieces and taking sneaky little mouthfuls.
“Oatmeal,” whispered Maybelle. “And raisins, and eggs.”
I nodded as I cast a glance southward where my old home stood, now an addition to Ms. Barfinger’s Boardinghouse. “And sugar,” I whispered. “And butter.”
Jimmy Joe and Maybelle led us toward the road that wound down sloped meadows and northward on the river’s near side, strolling hand in hand, as if they were courting instead of having been married practically forever. Til raced on ahead as though eager to fit a whole day’s devilment in before sunset. Gloriana ambled along beside me, stopping when I stopped to admire a flower or a fluttering bee-bird, and Jeff trailed behind, probably still trying to think of a way to keep Til from getting him into any more t
rouble.
By the time our family neared the bottom of the hill, other people had turned off, and we were alone, moving north along the pasture road.
Gloriana whispered, “Grandma Meg, what did Aunt Mayleen mean about the Siblinghood of Silence?”
“It’s a kind of organization,” I said. “They don’t accept just anyone as a member. Only men and women who really want to spend their lives doing good for people. They call it the Siblinghood of Silence because they’re not allowed to talk about what they do.”
“I hardly remember Ella May.”
“She’s strong, and has a rather plain, pleasant face, and she’s a good person.” Unlike, I didn’t say, her twin sister.
“That’s why she left, I guess. Daddy says the only way you can give Aunt Mayleen and Uncle Billy Ray anything without their being nasty about it, is drop it off after dark and hope the dogs don’t drag it away before morning. Probably Ella May tried to do them some good.”
Which was one of the more perspicacious things Glory had said recently. Mayleen and Billy Ray would definitely resent any effort to do them good. “I think Ella May tried very hard to help them the last time she was home,” I said. “I think they told her not to come back.”
I saw her tuck that away, probably to think about later.
“Grandma, what was the great failing Pastor Grievy always talks about?”
Aha, I’d been right. “Probably something that happened a long time ago, before your Grandpa Doc and I came to Tercis. It might have been something that happened to cause the Walling-Off, when all those bondslaves were being dumped here, ready to kill anyone who looked at them crosswise.”
“You and Grandpa Doc came later.”
“We came here directly from Earth without any bondage in between. I was twenty-two, he was thirty.”
“And Grandpa Doc talked you into coming here.”
The Margarets Page 23
