There is plenty of dry wood, so many huts without life.
The flames go up and up, black clouds of smoke, under black clouds of winter, reaching black clouds of crows.
One thing I never liked about the priest was his hands. He had pale yellow fingers and long dirty nails. Why does a man who never works the land have dirt under his nails? His headless corpse was the last one at the very edge of the sheepfold that refused to blaze. But he is gone now too.
It is not easy, not easy at all to yoke the ox and the mule together. Most men in the village wouldn’t be able to do it, yet most men never did much. They were retired soldiers of the Empire who settled here with my father. They preferred to practice with their swords, go hunting and fishing, drink the wine, shout at their women to hurry. Always hurry. The women did most of the hard work, even the ard.
I hope it snows soon; this cloud of smoke can be seen from far away. Somebody may come and ask; somebody will come and ask. What am I doing here? Who is this barbarian that I share my longhouse with? What will I say?
The priest said a prayer when he found the dead in the barn, and I was waiting behind him. The sickle was hanging there on the supporting beam. I didn’t plan it, I knew I had to do something, but the sickle helped me decide. The priest prayed above the dead:
“And He will come with wounds red, to judge the living and the dead.”
Why? Why will he do that? Did we invite him? When? What does he wait for? Doesn’t he listen to so many prayers, or see so many melting candles? Every spring, we slaughter our fattest sheep and sell their whitest wool to buy candles to pray for Anastasis. It never comes. Why doesn’t he listen? The witch’s baby burning with fever, my brother wailing, Jak-Ur above him? Mother, gone. What does he wait for? Does he enjoy the spectacle? Are we some rag dolls painted with chicken blood, jesters to fill his nights? If rain is his tears, what is snow? His indifference, his forgetfulness? White and soft?
It is time, Jak-Ur. Ten feet. You’ve been that far before. I can always cut the rope, but this time you hear me screaming and whipping the animals. This is our last chance ere the snow buries you tonight.
Judge me, father. Why do I help the one who murdered you, the one who raped your son and my little brother? Because if I leave him there, I am a coward, my soul is lost forever. I will never be the one who kills him face to face. He will be the fear that never leaves, I bury it deep, but his ghost will remain, and live in my head. If he stays in the hole, father, he won. He is forever the one skeleton I don’t dare to face. I have to run then, find another village, a cursed lone woman, not even a virgin.
Judge me, father priest. But see, the moment I cut your throat, I was banished to hell. Now I have to walk through it, and I need an infidel dog for company.
Judge me, mother. But you didn’t say a word when father promised me to the priest. I was with Crispus from first youth. He was the one for me, the boy with the long curly hair and the hands of an angel. We were to wed, he had whispered the sacred words of promise before we lay in the barn, that’s why I let him, and then he touched my lips, my breasts, and my legs. He tried to do things I didn’t understand until I saw Jak-Ur and little brother. It was painful, and I got no joy. He smelled good, but I drowned in guilt. I shouldn’t have done it; maybe I disappointed him, I don’t know. See, I’ll never know. He left soon after, to join the Empire’s soldiery just like my father. He disgraced me and abandoned me. Was it because God gave him a sign as he claimed? Was it because of that painful afternoon in the barn? Or was it because of the murrain? We used to have a lot more cattle, but most of them died. All that is left is the one ox that pulls now.
“Twenty feet. Almost there, Jak-Ur.”
My little brother would inherit the land; my father had promised the cattle to Crispus after he wed me. The cattle fell dead last winter; I tried to save them, rubbed them with the blue-green dust, but there was nothing I could do. “God’s will,” you say, Mother. Crispus sees a sign of God in his sleep; he has to leave, he will never wed me.
Father says he is proud and pats him on the back. He gives him a fast horse. Father is mad at me for I should have married him by now, he says. He doesn’t even know I am already given to him. I should wait for him, father says. Twenty years, he’ll be back if he survives the battles. He won’t. He is soft and a coward, that’s why he left, he will be slaughtered like sheep in the battlefields and no God will help poor Crispus, the boy with the curly hair. I will have to wear a black veil and live from my nineteenth year a widow, never to be touched again, remaining loyal and waiting for the one who abandons me willfully, you say father. I think Mother knows of the barn, of Crispus and me; she looks at me, and I remind her of is the witch and my father behind that same plank door. And I look so much like the witch and the rag doll, though no one dares to say it. At least now they can appease God and the priest who always had his eye on me, even when I was a little girl. Maybe he’ll bless the sheep and the crops, and they’ll fare better than the cattle.
“You are judging me, father, you are judging me, Mother, but your hands are red.”
Jak-Ur is at twenty feet. He bellows and grunts, with every pull. One of his legs is useless; he can’t even press it against the wall to help; the animals pull him, my whip and my will. But he will soon be up here, facing me.
I do not push fear down the hole;
I face fear with open eyes.
The witch is at the edge of the wood staring at me, as I whip the animals.
I slaughtered a piglet, and the meat is boiling now. I baked spelt bread, and it is still warm. I even found one full wineskin that Ion the Hunter had in his hut. It will be a great feast, Jak-Ur, and I don’t care what you do afterward. Strangle me, slaughter me, fuck me. I will not be afraid. Don’t throw me down the well, I beg you. But I keep a tiny blade sewn into my dress, you throw me there, and I cut my wrists, and that is it.
Are you judging me, little brother?
Aren’t we twins of one womb sheath; don’t we share every pain and joy and revenge? Don’t you think I wailed when you did? Don’t you see that I was raped when you were? Don’t you trust me?
It is not enough to kill Jak-Ur, little brother. No, that one I’ll keep alive. I have a whole tribe to devour, to bring to their knees. I need his help, his tongue, and his god. I can do it now; I think I know how. The witch did it, she murdered all of us, without ever lifting a knife.
All I have to do is use my mind and their fear. My rage and their god. I am sure they have a god, that tribe, all murderers have one. I’ll find him. Trust me, little brother, don’t judge me.
Jak-Ur grabs the upper rim of the well with his black fingers. They tremble under his weight; they tremble as he feels the wind and the sun rays, sees the anemones and the chrysanthemums that grow around the well.
You are here, my love. Worship me. Let’s feed; feed on each other. They all judge, He does, but who are they? Who gave them the right? I am the only one living. I am the only one with the power to judge.
I slit the priest’s throat, but I prayed over his body before I brought you his head:
“And I shall come with arms red, to judge the living and the dead.”
X.
With the Red
Adorning the White
Thirteenth Winter. The Sieve. Eighth Day.
“Black curse. Snow,” were the first words that came out of each twelve-wintered mouth on the eighth day. Our luck had run out. The snow came fast in the dark and caught us by surprise, whirling the dance of death. The flakes were flying up and around our heads in the angry wind, not heavily toward the ground. The Reghen had chosen his Story well the previous night when he spoke of the frozen ghosts from the North.
We might have stood until sundown in the rain the days before, but we would last only a few moments under this white cloak of death. I thought they would leave us dressed this time, but the Guides forced us again to take off even our boots.
“They want to kill us all,” whispered Ata
res next to me a little before he fell, defeated, the first to go. He couldn’t stand the cold. He couldn’t stand the Sieve, even though he knew everything there was to know about it. Maybe because he knew everything about it.
The Reghen shouted after a little while, “Any rabbit-heart who can’t take the cold, come forward now. Kneel, you cowards, and join the Sheep on an empty belly.”
“Hey, you, yellow-liver. Atares is waiting for you.” Bako was mocking me. He had seen the agony in my eyes. My bare toes had gone blue in the snow.
Many knelt immediately at the Reghen’s words, and before long even more followed. When only eight of us were left, Keko, the cloudy-eyed Guide, approached and threw four pairs of boots, with felt stockings tied to them, like the ones that the great warriors wore. Eight children, four pairs of boots. Instead of boots, some would be picking up their teeth and blood as the snow reddened in front of us.
We had played a game of one word the previous night. Each of us had to make a wish, and the wish could be only one word.
“Meat,” said someone.
“Archer,” said Matsa.
Malan said nothing.
“Mother,” said Elbia.
“Victory,” said Bako.
My wish did not fit into one word. Only my curse. But in the snowy field, I now had a one-word wish: “Boots.”
I did nothing heroic to help Elbia. Before I even thought of that, Bako brought her down with a hard punch, and Danaka sank her teeth deep into my arm. Danaka still thought I was an easy opponent, meat for the dogs. I hit her repeatedly in the head on that white field, until she lost all consciousness. But she would live. She would lose one toe in the snow, but this would be her pride when she grew up and became an Archer.
“I lost a toe in the Sieve fighting with Malan. And Da-Ren,” she would say for winters to come. It was her bravest Story, the one she would greet the Goddess with at the end.
That night, the Guide pulled out Danaka’s blackened little toe in one move in the Sheep’s tent. I heard many stories of how many children fainted at that sight. “Two children fainted,” “three,” “all except me”—they all said something different.
Four of us remained who could still walk, one for each pair of boots, when they dragged the rest away quickly so they wouldn’t die of cold.
Speechless, with warm feet and bloodied faces, we stood still under the stout gray cauldron of the sky that was pouring white vomit from the belly of the Drakon over our heads. The Drakon of the North, the one place where our ancestors never dared go again.
They didn’t let us freeze until the afternoon. It was still early in the morning when the Reghen approached the field again and threw three big pieces of meat, bigger than ever, in front of us. The day’s trial had come to an end. Very fast. Almost. Save for one piece.
We all looked at one another for an instant. My whole body stiffened, ready to attack and defend, watching the other three. The wolf was my mother, the Story said. Urak had beaten Bako badly a few breaths before, and I didn’t want to roll with him. Malan was as strong as I, and maybe he thought he was stronger. Matsa was definitely weaker, but he was quick. One thing was sure: one of us would starve that day. Malan turned and whispered something to Urak. Urak nodded.
There were never any rules in our fights. Kicks, punches, scratches, stones. Urak attacked Matsa, Malan shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t care to fight, and a breath later he moved fast to punch me. Soon we were wrestling in the white powder. I was stronger than him but didn’t want to crush his head. The fight was not ending. He whispered to me as I was holding him back from biting me.
“Let’s finish this, Da-Ren. It’s Matsa or you.”
It was simple. Unjust, I could say now, knowing what the word means, but simple.
All three of us fell on Matsa, and after a few kicks, which we made sure were far from his head, he fell, helpless, at our feet. I ran to the Wolves’ tent and began to rub my hands furiously near the fire. Then I roasted my meat, which had become as hard as ice. We three devoured the day’s trophy. Matsa’s one eye was swollen shut, but with the other, he looked at the meat. I extended my hand to give him some. He deserved it. He tried to take the whole piece. I kicked him hard. If he deserved it, he should have won it himself.
It was still midmorning when we finished eating. We were trapped in the tent with nothing to do, trying to avoid Matsa who stared at me like a one-eyed toothless wolf cub.
Matsa waited for Malan to turn his back and fell on him punching with both fists. Urak joined the brawl, kicking Matsa again. If they let us, we would keep on it all day, fighting the boredom away, isolated in that tent. The Guides felt sorry for us and let us go back outside, warmed and dressed this time, to carry more horse dung. Felt sorry—stupid words I come up with, as if I knew what others felt. They probably needed more dung for the fire. It was damn cold.
The marks on the snow, red and brown lines, were fading fast but still showed the way to the Sheep’s tents. The four of us played our hearts out. Even Matsa. We rolled around in the snow and had blade fights with wooden poles. As evening fell, I was parrying with Malan when I saw shadows standing out in the pale mist on top of the eastern shed.
I froze. My stick did not rise to block Malan’s.
They were standing there. I saw them just for a breath before Malan’s stick crashed onto my head. My back hit the ground hard. Matsa and Malan knelt next to me.
“What are you doing?” Malan asked.
Urak was circling around us like a trapped boar.
“Let’s get out of here. It’s getting dark,” he mumbled.
“What happened, Da-Ren?” Malan asked again.
“I saw them, there, on top of the shed. Two Wolfmen standing on two legs. Heads and body of a wolf. And tails. Black fur. I saw them.”
“I don’t see anyone.”
“I saw them, Malan, just for one breath, but they had tails. Wolfmen. Not men.”
“Wolf or men, none of us saw them. That stick hit you hard.”
Urak was trembling but not saying a word. He had seen them too.
I counted my fingers from the first night of the Sieve, when Selene was less than half. Eight nights had passed. This ninth one coming would reveal her in full, if the Sky’s cloudbreaths parted. But the Sky refused.
I got off the snow, leaving behind a few blood marks where Malan had hit me. The children’s harmless play ended on that eighth day. The ninth night came dark, its only color the red adorning the white under my torchlight. The Sieve was now ready to dawn on us, razortoothed and merciless.
XI.
Much Worse
Thirteenth Winter. The Sieve. Thirteenth Day.
The mud and the snow fought for the next few days over who would color the field. Our feet prayed. The mud listened. The snow was defeated and round holes of brown earth started to show. The white melted into a net of faint lines that looked like enormous honeycombs. The rain I had cursed the first night returned now as a gift and thawed the earth.
The Guides came and went, taking as few slow steps as possible. They never again touched a cup or a pot, clothing or fire; we did all the work now. Not me, though. Every day three of those who had fallen the day before didn’t come to the field. Instead they were assigned the upkeep of our small camp. We called them Carriers. We also started to wake up a little later, not in the middle of the night.
“We do it for us, so we can sleep, not for you,” I heard Keko say in between various curses about our mothers. Keko always found a chance to bring up our mothers. Up until the night I learned I was a ninestar, I had never thought about mine.
The Reghen who visited our tent each night, a different face each time, was the only reminder that a world existed outside our camp. They brought four new kids around the tenth day. I spoke to one of them, who told me that he had been snatched from his tent at night and carried for six days by oxcart to get here. He wasn’t from Sirol but from one of our outposts on the southern steppe.
&nb
sp; We lost two of the children who had never seen the inside of the Wolves’ tent. One morning they just didn’t show up in the field. Instead we saw a cart carrying little bodies from the Sheep’s tents. They told us the children had died. I believed them. They weren’t children who could run away. I believed them because the Ouna-Ma was there when they told us.
Two nights later, the cold came back worse than before. On the morning of the thirteenth day, the scorching horse dung smelled like an old horse had peed inside my nose, but its warmth was the most beautiful gift of the Unending Blue Sky. It wasn’t really that blue those days. I was in the Wolves’ tent again, without Malan, who had fallen for his second time. I was the only one who’d fallen only once. The strongest.
Elbia was with me and eyes would gather on her like flies on meat—all day and all night. The eyes of the other children, the Guides’ eyes, even those of the Ouna-Mas followed her. I may have been the strongest in the Sieve so far, but no one looked at me like that.
I was talking to Elbia less and less. These days she was sought after, and someone always managed to be near her before me. I wasn’t going to wait in line to speak to her. One day I’d ride the war horses with her, and that was enough of a promise to endure any cold. I wanted to shout to everyone around, “Why don’t you all just leave her alone? Can’t you see that she doesn’t want to talk to you?”
But she did. Elbia’s smile burned like a sacred torch of hope, night and day, in the camp of the Sieve. Why did she have a smile for all those boys, even the Guides?
It wasn’t a big camp. It was more like a small cage that could fit the suffering and our misery. I measured it once when a Guide on a galloping horse rode all the way from one end to the other. The horse covered the distance before I could breathe slowly a dozen times. A dozen breaths north to south. About the same west to east; that was all. The field in the middle was half the length of the camp. There was only one gate, at the southeast corner, for horses, carts, Ouna-Mas, and death to enter.
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