The White Serpent

by Tanith Lee

  13. The Witch

  UP AND DOWN THE tracks went, down and up. It had become the only mode of travel. The passes were tortuous and unsafe. The crags across the border stood northward like transparent paper. Beyond—Zakoris, and Panduv never gave it a thought.

  The farm lodged in a valley, in a bowl of mountains, under a sky wheeling with three black eagles.

  The poverty and ugliness of the place were almost dreamlike. Nevertheless, there were fowl in the yard, a cow or two on the pasture, and beyond these a rocky upcrop with a thick plantation of citrus trees already in young orange fruit. There seemed another low building in among them, something that shone pale through the rocks and trunks. Could anything to do with the farm have a sheen on it?

  In the yard, a healthy-looking oldish man sat on a bench, with an elderly black dog at his feet. Both were asleep in the sun. As the travelers drew nearer, the dog heard them, lifted its head and began to bark. The man also woke up and made a flurry, waving his arms, and next running into the hovel.

  “Cah bless us, a bloody ninny” said Arud. “The cup of plenty spills.”

  He rode down into the yard, the one outrider (who had lost on the throw of the dice) behind him, and Panduv some three or four paces to the rear. The dog flattened itself growling, hackles high, to maintain the house door. But just then the girl came out.

  “Hush, Blackness, hush. So,” she said. The dog hushed.

  Arud had claimed from the temple a coarse-woven, poorly dyed, cack-handedly-stitched fresh robe. Seeing it was not only a man but a priest who had arrived, Tibo kneeled among the fowl, bowing her head.

  Aarl’s night, thought Panduv. If she has any power. Why kneel?

  Arud was dismounting.

  “Get up,” he said to Tibo. “You are the woman Thioo?”

  “Yes, priest-master.”

  “That Thioo who claims to be a witch?”

  Tibo waited, her eyes down on the pecking fowl.

  “Answer,” said Arud. “Do you?”

  “No, priest-master.”

  “But you healed a man yesterday of a cut hand.” Another pause. “Do you deny it?”

  Then Tibo raised her eyes, only to Arud’s sparkling-new-shaven chin, nevertheless, that high.

  “It is the will of Cah.”

  “You add to your crimes the crime of blasphemy.”

  “If I blaspheme, may she blast me.”

  They stood half a minute at attention, as if for a volley of lightning.

  “I won’t say,” said Arud, “that you are a liar and a cheat. I’ll ask you only how you, a female, came by such gifts as they say you have, of healing and conjuration. Well? Do you dare tell me the goddess visited you?”

  Arud had been questioning the villagers all morning, in the temple. He did not put them to any trial, but their terror was apparent, and they babbled. The witch could stop an outbreak of fire in the fields with a word. She could summon it, too, into a lamp or on a hearth. She had caused various animals to drop double sets of twins. Women in childbirth, or the sick, always wanted her. Barren women turned fertile at her handling. (Interesting, there, she could not see to herself.) She could send away storms and call the rain. She—

  “I’ll say again, and you’ll answer me, woman: Did Cah visit you?”

  “No, master. But once I was questioned before Cah. They let me lay my hand on her. I’ve guessed it started then.”

  She believes that. Panduv, ferociously. She thinks that the stone passed magic into her, and that all is well in this land. She consents to kneel to the male priest, and to serve that witless one as if he were a king, since he must be her husband. She isn’t much like Rehger. The eyes. And then Panduv, thinking of Rehger, visualized the firm gentleness behind his fierce barbaric strength, the curious innocence she had once or twice noted in his beautiful face. Nothing foolish; more—profound. The eyes of a child several hundred years old, who has been able to unlearn the cleverness of his younger seniority. Tibo had a look of that.

  “I’d take you to your temple to be questioned again,” said Arud, “but not yet. Cah, let me rest. Watch that dog and keep it off me. Give some water to the beasts.”

  He went into the hovel with a proprietary but hopeless air, plainly pondering fleas and insalubrious meat and bitter beer.

  The girl Tibo remained at the door until he and the outrider passed through. The zeebas had been tied to a post. Tibo drew water at the well, and took it to them in a bucket. She promised them fodder, Panduv heard her, talking in a secret friend’s voice at their ears.

  Toward Panduv Tibo made no display of recognition.

  Yet, she must truly have some sorcery. She knew, without knowing it or me, that I had some significance for her. I saw her son in his glory.

  • • •

  One large room, the hovel was divided from its main area at the back by two wooden walls. These created two sleeping cells, out of the larger of which into the smaller Tibo lugged a mattress. It was clean, fragrant even with herbs and the scent of soap. This bed was Tibo’s own it would seem. Her half-wit husband slumbered by her in the same room, but on another couch. Tonight husband and wife, if needful, would share, in order the priest should have good rest.

  Arud left his instructions. The outrider was to guard the entry to his sleeping-place for three hours, then wake him. The outrider sat by the entry, and, as promptly as Arud, fell asleep.

  The husband had been reassured and gone out for a constitutional with the black dog. From the hovel yard they were visible in the valley, playing with a stick.

  Tibo went on with her chores, now doubled by guests. She offered Panduv nothing, nor refused her anything. Panduv in turn drew water and drank two cups. Then she watched Tibo. In the end, Panduv spoke to Tibo.

  “Are you afraid? I mean of this questioning at the temple. Arud is persistent.”

  “I’m not afraid,” said Tibo.

  She went into a hut and returned with fodder for the zeebas.

  “Witches are stoned, aren’t they?” said Panduv.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not a witch.”

  “I obey Cah.”

  “Why,” said Panduv, “did you look so long at me in the temple?”

  “Your black skin,” said the Iscaian.

  Panduv checked. Perhaps it had been only that.

  She followed Tibo back into the house and observed her making dough at the hearth. Panduv sat down opposite to her.

  “I can’t help you with your wifely tasks. You see, I was never trained to them.”

  Tibo made no comment. But suddenly she said, “Your master the priest has a fever. I grow an herb here that will cool it.”

  “He’s not my master. He may try to think so. Nevertheless, little Iscaian wifeling, he’s useful to me. I’m not about to let you poison him.”

  Tibo made no comment. And this time offered nothing else.

  Tight-strung, Panduv said harshly, “They tell in Ly your son was sold to slavers some twenty years ago. I know the name of your son.” She hesitated, to equip herself with the essential, recognizable slur. “Raier.”

  Tibo’s hands turned to stones in the midst of the dough. The hearth fire’s glow flickered against her face, its lovely youngness and veiled eyes.

  “But he wasn’t yours. You’re no older than he would be.”

  Tibo said, “Yes, but he was my son.”

  The air tingled. This was like some duel, but not between enemies, not even sisters at practice.

  “I have known him,” said Panduv. “He and I were starry lights of the arena at Saardsinmey, in Alisaar. His light was the greater. They called him Rehger the Lydian. He was a famous swordsman and charioteer, the best of them, gorgeous as a god—”

  Tibo lifted her head. She looked at Panduv with great eyes full of ancient, worn and uncomplaining hurt, and
sudden lashing anger. The power that came from her made Panduv start. In another moment, the Iscaian had controlled it, her emotion, the power. She soothed them down, like her dog at the door. Then she gazed far away, beyond Panduv, the hovel, the valley, and said, “Not now. Later. If you want, speak to me then. First I must answer to your master.”

  Vastly disconcerted, Panduv could only rasp, “I told you, he isn’t my master.”

  “What does it matter?” said the Iscaian, her eyes on other worlds. “Nothing matters. Here we are. Here, it’s the custom.”

  “Your custom. That pie-brain up the valley—your lordly, masterful husband—does he give you Cah’s pleasure? I doubt if he fathered Rehger. What’s he worth?”

  “While I’m married to Orhn, I needn’t take another man.”

  “You could geld every man in the village with your magic. By the Fire, I felt it, just now, what you could do. You are a sorceress. Why be a slave?”

  But Tibo was busy again with the hospitable dough.

  • • •

  It was quickly over, in the eventuality.

  Arud wakened near sunset, in a foul temper, berated the snoring outrider, said to Panduv, “My head aches— it’s the stink here—” which was wrong, for the hovel was kept fastidiously and did not stink—and called for beer and food.

  Tibo served a savory stew, into which he would do no more than dip a chunk of bread. He was suspicious of venoms, or only of eating up some intrinsic element, and thus, being warped to the witch’s charms. Panduv, having offered to act as his taster, did have a plate of the stew. It was delicious, and the hot cakes tasty. The fever was still on Arud, as Tibo had said. He drank cup after cup of “Orhn’s” beer, to quench the fever’s thirst.

  The idiot husband ate farther along the board, sometimes feeding the black dog. She was a bitch, full of age, yet despite the gray on her muzzle, clear-eyed and alert. She had been ready to go for their throats at the door. Tibo’s youth, while it had not infused the dog, had still kept her in health. Panduv remembered how the idiot had played with the dog. He could not be blamed for anything. He looked at Tibo with unIscaian, unmanly love and admiration. She was now his mother.

  Arud pushed away from the table, and called for more beer. He went over and sat in a wooden chair by the hearth, the fever making him want the warmth one minute, then draw off in a sweat.

  Tibo filled his cup as he demanded. Suddenly he rose and caught her wrist.

  The idiot whined, and the dog rumbled.

  Tibo, not resisting, said back to them, “It’s well. Hush.”

  “No,” said Arud, “it isn’t well. How will he manage after they stone you?”

  It was then that Tibo lifted up her eyes to his. It was only for two or three seconds, enough, it seemed. In the beginning, Arud had sometimes struck Panduv, weightless puppy blows, and she had been able—after that first occasion—to contain herself. Later there was no aggression of this kind. Now his hand went whirling back, gathering up all the strength of his arm, to bring a blow on Tibo that could have broken her jaw. Panduv, who had been trained to know the measure of such things, sprang straight for him. She snatched his arm on its backswing, and hauled. The Watcher priest went toppling over, on his spine on the dirt floor. He took a pot with him, which smashed. He lay there in the debris, cursing and sprawling, his eyes madly upon Panduv, while the outrider, pulling a knife, made as if to come at her. Panduv flung up her hand, holding the outrider off with her dramatic gesture. To Arud she said, “Master, you mustn’t strike her. Before Cah. No.”

  Arud gabbled, struggling to sit up. The outrider, in a dilemma (Panduv had cowed him), hurried to assist.

  “Master,” wheedled Panduv, hating him, “I thought only to save you. If Cah truly is with her, you daren’t raise your hand against the goddess.”

  “Cah—” Arud panted, his head swimming, blundering to his feet, “there’s no goddess—Cah is only life—”

  “Close your ears,” Panduv said severely to the outrider, who was now blinking indeed, and making signs over himself. “You misunderstand his words.”

  “Life—embodied in the symbol of Cah—” cried Arud, striving to teach them.

  Panduv thrust him down into the wooden chair. She shut his mouth by putting her hand on it (scandalous). When she moved away, it was to balance on the soles of her feet, fighter’s stance, at the room’s center. She looked about. Everyone waited, even the idiot hiding behind a bench, and the rumbling dog.

  “There’s only one means to see if this woman is a cheat,” said Panduv, “or sacred. You can do it here and now, lord Watcher. This man and I will witness. Tell her to demonstrate her abilities.” And turning, Panduv glared at Tibo. “Tell her to call fire.”

  Arud was regaining some sense. Shivering, but coherent, he snapped at the outrider to refill his cup.

  The dog had stopped growling. Everything was very still. The hearthwood crackled, the beer sounded as it ran into the cup.

  Tibo stood with her eyes lowered. She was waiting. She would have done nothing—nothing—until the priest should require it of her.

  Arud said, “All right. Let’s see you do that. Bring the fire, as they say you do.” And he drank noisily.

  After which it was the quiet again, thick as syrup in the hovel room, the crackle of the hearth absorbed away into it. And then they heard Tibo breathing, audibly, deep, catching breaths—like a woman with her lover—

  She will do this. It’s impossible and it will be done, Panduv thought. No trickery, a truth. The Fire of Zarduk.

  Tibo extended her left arm. Her eyes were upturned, the whites visible. All at once the sound of her breathing stopped.

  The Zakorian saw Tibo’s left breast gleaming like a lamp through the thin stuff of her garment. The light spread, into the shoulder, the upper arm. The forearm bloomed red as roses—it was the blood inside the skin—and the bones showed black. Then the left hand of Tibo became a torch, and from the four fingers and the thumb there pierced five spurts of living fire.

  The outrider yelled. Arud had dropped the cup, for Panduv heard it rolling. The idiot and the dog, they only looked on, interested, accustomed, without a trace of fear. (The dog even wagged her tail.)

  The flames, hitting the floor, leapt and twined. A fire dance. Then Tibo sighed. She began to breathe again, and her arm, shoulder and breast abruptly darkened like a dying coal.

  Arud came plunging forward.

  “It isn’t real. Illusion—ah!” He drew out singed fingers, beat at his smoking robe.

  Tibo gazed down upon the fire.

  “Hush,” she murmured. “So.”

  And the fire went out.

  Arud said, “It burned me.”

  Between them, Panduv and the outrider caught him this time as he fell.

  • • •

  “He’s sleeping most serenely. What herb was that?”

  “It has an upland name. But I could show you.”

  Panduv had administered the drink to Arud. For half an hour after swallowing it, he sweated profusely, and then sank back into a level slumber. The outrider stationed at the entry of the sleeping-place was by contrast wide awake, his teeth gritted and the knife lying across his knees.

  Panduv and Tibo returned to the hearth. Orhn also slept on the bench, the dog dozing with her head in his lap.

  “This life suits you then,” said Panduv presently.

  “To what other life should I go?”

  Panduv examined the words. They applied in due course to herself. She had already said them. Besides, she had tonight, even loathing his actions, defended Arud. She discovered in herself a tug toward him, a deep-seated moderating attachment. She had already tutored him in many ways. There was much that might be done—not to change him, but to allow him to be the man she had once or twice glimpsed under the flaccidity, the bludgeoning nonsense. This was rat
her dismal, that she had come to have such feelings for an Iscaian priest. But this was what fate had given her, and the gods. And Zarduk, whom she had worshiped in the tall temple at Saardsinmey, here he had let fall the bane-benison of his fire on an outlander who did not even honor him.

  “However,” said Panduv, “we were going to talk of your son, Rehger. That was how the name was spoken, in Alisaar. Come now, your Orhn wasn’t his father.”

  Tibo looked into the common flames of the hearth which she had summoned with flint and tinder.

  “A man came here, once.”

  “Your lover.”

  “For a night. Cah sent him to me. I thought he’d leave me nothing. But I was childed by him.”

  Panduv stayed silent, but Tibo said nothing else. So then Panduv recounted the youth and manhood of a Swordsman, of Rehger, in the courts of Daigoth. At first the story was objective. Then it became mixed with her own, the training which she had undergone— Next, the enormous sealed vista of that lost world opened before Panduv, and she flung it out before Tibo in turn, in the hearthlight, like a carpet of many colors. Woven there, the trials and failures, the excellences and the rewards. Woven there the city, its squares and avenues, the adulation of the crowds, and the ringing of the sea. The markers of the festivals, she related, the seasons of its calendar. The night of the Fire Ride, and how Rehger had won it. She conjured Rehger, as if she, too, were a witch, there into the hovel, and caused him to stand before his mother, in beauty and pride. Panduv herself hung the last garland on his golden brow: She made him from the night, as he had partly been, the cipher for Saardsinmey.

  And after that, when the hearthlight guttered—she had talked for more than an hour—it came time to tell of the end of the city and of Rehger’s death. And only then, Panduv recalled the dream she had been having, in the Cah temple of Ly. The Amanackire girl who said to her: “Your well-built, obdurate tomb. There he was—when the wave broke.” And the Zakorian, explaining the destruction she had never seen, of her city which was not hers, to a woman who surely could not, being ignorant for all her sorcery, comprehend half of that which Panduv specified—Panduv found herself saying, “But someone assured me, Tibo, that your son survived the cataclysm. It may not be a fact. You’re a witch, perhaps you can divine. If he’s alive.”