by Andre Norton
“It was her custom, as with all family-heads, to ride a tame horse around to all her kindred to see how they did. But this time, ill luck befell her.”
Arona lowered her voice ominously. “Wild males from across the plains had come raiding, like wolves, knowing neither decency nor kindness. These found Myrrha Foxlady and killed her guards with great violence in their madness. They did to her and the bodies of the guards as Falconers do. Then their he-mistress, one named Tsengan, nobody knows whose child, took the body of Myrrha Foxlady upon his great tame horse and rode to the gates of her great fortified house, shouting for her he-sisters to come out. To them he promised to spare her life if they promised to treat him as mother and mistress in all things, and to save her life, they agreed.”
Egil, listening in the darkness, frowned and shook his head. No romance, for so this seemed to be, could rally terrified women and children; though it might distract them. He had thought better of Arona, too. Oh, well, she was only a girl after all.
Arona's voice grew rich with anger. “This Tsengan locked Myrrha in her room and would not let her speak, nor do her duties as head of the family, but beat her into obedience like a cruel mistress, and every night he did with her as Falconers do until he started a daughter within her. Then he spoke of giving the unborn daughter to another wild man to be bondservant to him as Myrrha was to Tsengan, and this she could not endure.
“He also oppressed her household miserably, making each of his wild men mistress over some woman's house, and giving them leave to beat their bondmaids and their bondmaids’ children, these who had been free people and proud! He killed the Healers and the Wise Women. Every maiden was made bondmaid to some wild man, while for those who were women, it was like a Falconer visit that lasted forever.” Arona's voice grew deep with horror. Leatrice shivered. She had little idea what a Falconer visit entailed, but plainly, things unspeakable were happening at Castle Foxlady.
Arona's voice grew softer. “Then, as Myrrha sat in her room, seeking a way to escape and free herself from this madman, a falcon flew in the window. Some say it was Jonkara Herself. The falcon lighted on Myrrha's shoulder and said ‘Over the mountains, over the sea, Falconer ladies intend to flee.’ Then Myrrha knew her release was at hand. She sent her tame fox with a collar and a note tucked under the collar to follow the falcon back to the Falconlady House. She waited. No rescue came.”
A sigh ran around the cave. Arona's voice grew clear and strong. “She must save herself. Then one day her mad he-mistress accused a village woman of witchcraft and made Myrrha, dressed as family-head, watch the woman burn alive, in silence. This was so all would think she had ordered it, for she had argued day and night with him to do justice and cease to do wrong, and no beatings would stop her from pleading for her kin. Then she knew what she must do.”
Egil frowned. No, this was no romance. It seemed, rather, a ruined woman avenging the loss of her honor.
Arona dropped her voice significantly. “Myrrha spoke quietly among the women in her house, those who knew she defended them and tried to care for them and protect them from the madmen. She spoke to the cooks and those who served the tables. Her he-sisters she did not speak to, for they had promised to obey Tsengan and not harm him, to save her life, and they never went back on a promise. She begged her women to make some excuse to bring those two into a room apart, with a lock on the door. She put something in their wine to make them sleep. She locked them in, so they could truly say they broke no promise, being helpless.”
She paused. “Then she put even stronger doses of the medicine in the wine of the madmen, and killed them all. Some she had to kill with her knife, and some died of the drug, but all died. Then she found her tame horse and fled as fast as she could to Falcon House, where the madmen had been raiding and plundering for years but had not taken the house, to tell her cousin the Falconlady she was free and the wild males were dead.”
There was a dead silence in the caves as Egil pondered on the extraordinary ruthlessness of this long-ago maiden. Arona's voice took on a mourning tone.
“It was the custom in those days,” she said simply, “for every woman to take to herself a he-male who was as a sisterfriend to her and more, and she would let him start her daughters within her. Such a one was called her—” She used a word Egil did not recognize; plainly it meant husband. He would be glad to take her aside later and set her straight on this and related matters. Arona was speaking again.
“Myrrha's kinswoman, the Falconlady, had such a he-sisterfriend, who had done as the wild men did,” she said in a lowered voice, “and made himself mistress over Falcon House and Falconlady, and had made bargains with Tsengan, to stand together against Tsengan's fellow bandits. When Myrrha Foxlady came to him, torn and bleeding and weary, this false kinsman scolded her, calling her betrayer of her husband and their people. He scolded her for a wicked child who did her own will without thinking who it hurt!”
Arona's voice took on a sharp, rapping anger. “Myrrha was very angry, for she had saved them all from a wicked bandit at great cost to herself and great suffering. But Falconlady's daughter came to her and swore to be sisters with her forever and ever for her courage, and so it was. Later, such as Falconlady's husband became Falconers, and killed Myrrha Foxlady as they killed all who crossed their will, and we women went on alone to live alone, for there were no he-women left who knew decency and kindness any more. None of us has ever known why they stopped behaving well and started behaving like madmen, but we could not endure it. Thus, we only let them among us every year, and then only at the place they built for us, apart from where we live, and then for one purpose only, to give us our daughters. In exchange for which, they take our sons to live among them as Falconers.”
Arona took a deep breath. “May we all be as brave as Myrrha Foxlady, but may we never need to kill or be killed.”
Egil scowled. A feeble disclaimer for such a vicious tale! If Myrrha were not a woman ruined, but Tsengan's lawful wife—the stupid wench should have made that clear from the beginning!—then her actions were foul and treacherous beyond belief. Was Arona making a heroine of one who poisoned her husband? He could not believe it. She must be reciting an old folktale by rote, ignorant of its implications or how it should be framed for a proper moral lesson.
When they got out of this cavern, if they ever did, he would properly recast it. It was only his duty as future village recorder; and certainly doing so was a major step in attaining the office. That is, unless the crones had the usual old-woman attachment to what they knew, whether or not it made sense. Well, he'd fix that, too.
The lights by the door flamed higher and thunder rolled across the mountains like a frenzied giant's drum roll. The wind, rising throughout, now whipped icy rain into the cave mouth. The huddled villagers moved farther and farther back into the cavern's recesses. Nelga Olwithsdaughter, her voice shaking, whispered, “I will never forget my coming of age!”
Leatrice Huanasdaughter laughed through her terror. “You mean you'd rather stand by the wall waiting for Oseberg or Egil to ask you to dance? When we have parties, Mother always makes me sing and play the lap harp for the guests.”
“But you're a bard!” Nelga whispered. “Oh, Ofelis will be so pleased to have a girl in the village who can sing! She lost her last journeywoman to childbirth. It was two-headed twins and so horrible; she cried for weeks, then made a Teaching song for the Healers, and has never spoken of it again. Oh,” she remembered Leatrice's question. “In our village it's courtesy for the host to invite the guests into the dance; I'm glad you told me your ways. I wouldn't want Egil to think us rude. Leatrice, could you try to sing the storm away?”
The thunder rolled again, as close as if lightning were striking this very mountain, and rain lashed the doorway. Leatrice gaped at Nelga and began, unsteadily, the ballad she had sung for the herd camp. Oseberg took up the tune, adding a few bass notes; Egil, on the other wall, sang counterpoint. From that song they went to the tragic “Witch Vow,
” the jolly “Swamp Maid,” and a merry tale of a farmer and his wife who tried to do each other's work, one day. Then she began an even merrier tale of how a rabbit outsmarted a fox.
The mountain shuddered as if it were giving birth. Leatrice clapped her hands, singing, “Don't throw me in that bush, don't throw me in that bush. And the rabbit cried merrily to the fox, oh, don't throw me in that bush.”
The nearest village maids giggled and clapped, repeating the chorus, “Don't throw me in that bush, don't throw me in that bush… .”
The mountain began shivering and a noise like thunder began to roll, but did not end. It slowly grew louder and deeper, deeper and louder, as the mountain shivered, then shook. The cavern floor tilted to the right, then to the left, throwing the crowded villagers and refugees across the rough stone. Children screamed and the animals packed in with them howled or cackled according to their breed. The mountain shook itself as if to rid itself of vermin.
A sheet of blinding white light flashed across the door. Arona held up her hand to shield her eyes, and stared in horror at the plain outline of her bones seen clearly through the flesh. Behind this shield, she could see the familiar outline of Falcon Crag crumble and disintegrate like a child's snow house in the thaw. The light vanished, and the newly-blind cave dwellers cried out. Somewhere a woman started sobbing. Outside the cave mouth, the rain fell, a bit more gently than the usual late-summer afternoon thunderstorm.
A faint whimpering came from the heap of robed bodies lying by the cave door. Arona slowly made her way to them. The Witches who had stood guard at the door lay there, unmoving, but for one whose foot twitched slowly. “Dame Floree!” she screamed then. “Dame Healer, come quickly!”
It was the stranger-child Hanna who came, her mistress close behind her. Between them, the three women turned over the first body. Dame Floree leaned down, ear to the Witch's chest. She felt the woman's face, and breathed her breath into her mouth. This she did with all four of them.
Two were dead. One lived, sick and weak. The Dissident lay as if dead, her pulse a thin thread, her face a grayish-white.
Dame Floree called for help. Slowly, under a night-black sky, the women of Riveredge Village came to the cavern mouth to see. They made up pallets from their shawls and cloaks, blankets, and extra skirts, for the two sick Witches to lie on. Then, weary unto death themselves, they tried to sleep.
When dawn came, cold and grey with glowering red clouds overhead, they came out to see what had become of their village.
There was very little left. They would have to build it all again, from the root cellars up.
And the entire year's crops were now destroyed.
Seven
After the Storm
The records! Arona raced from the cave mouth to Records House, and cried out in dismay at the wreckage. Little Red Pest dashed up out of the storm cellar stairs, winding herself around Arona's legs. “You fool cat!” Arona exclaimed with joy, wrestling the great door open. “Whatever made you hide yourself down there?” It must be that the Goddess whispered to cats in times of need.
The records, stored carefully on their own shelves in a room beside the root crops and the oil jars, had all withstood the storm. The recorder's apprentice ran from one to the other, checking each one with mounting cries of joy, then let out a ringing whoop of delight. The records had survived the storm! She ran back into the village to see what else still stood.
Noriel's anvil and Lennis's millstones were intact. Many heavy tools had not been blown far. Most peoples’ root cellars remained. But the fields, the houses, the pots and weavings which were their only trade goods, and anything else above ground smaller than a huge boulder, were debris-strewn wrecks.
A huge fallen tree had crushed the roof of the village hall. Oseberg and Egil, each taking one end, were struggling to move it alone. Noriel laid down her hoe and strode forward, lifting the middle. It barely budged. “Darann!” she called. Egil gave her a foully insulted look.
“Egil, Oseberg,” the crisp voice of Darann Mulemistress snapped across the ruined fields. “Try not to wear yourselves out; we have a long stretch of work ahead of us.”
Arona lifted her head and shielded her sensitive eyes against the bright fall sun. “With all due respect, Mistress,” Egil Elyshabetsdaughter answered back crisply, “see that your ladies do not overwork themselves. Oseberg and I will handle the heavy work.”
“Egil Insolence,” a woman whispered, and snickered at the newcomer's widespread nickname. Egil Arrogance, Arona thought, as she started digging out whatever could be salvaged from the Records House ruins.
Grimly the women and girls put their backs into the salvage work as if they faced a house-raising after a fire, but so much multiplied, no end seemed in sight. The village hall and Healing House first, with the young and sick and elderly crying in the cold. Any root crops that could be salvaged were shared equally, despite the outcries of those who had planted them, for people were starving. Dame Butthead's milk, like that of her sisters, was doled out by the half-cup, and any hens’ eggs were served by the slice. Cats, dogs, and chickens were turned loose to forage for themselves, and the big girls took the sheep back to the open range to graze in what scrub grass remained.
Egil and Oseberg worked like mules, and all the village watched, amazed. They started earliest and ended latest, and hauled the heaviest loads. Quietly some of the weaker workers began taking on the camp chores for the two of them, saying, “It isn't fair they should work so much harder than the rest of us.”
Suddenly, on the tenth day, the lookouts on the mountainside sounded a strange call: not the falcon's cry for Falconers; nor the dove call for the Daughters of Gunnora come to trade; nor the vulture's cry for bandits; but a quail's call. “Strangers. Misdirect them!”
“I went last time,” a woman shrilled.
“Well, it's not my turn,” another argued sourly.
“Where in Jonkara's name are the veils and robes?” a third demanded.
“Arona, you speak the strangers’ tongue,” the new Eldest Mother, Raula Mylenesdaughter, ordered. “You, you, and you,” she pointed to several experienced traders, all of childbearing age and perfect in form, none of whom had gone on the last visit, except for the girl. With a curse of, “Wretched strangers,” Arona fetched her veils from the storm cellar, behind the onions.
Egil, who was hitching a downed tree to Darann's mule team, stopped. “If it's strangers, you'll need protection and someone to speak for you,” he said, in a firm, reasonable tone that brooked no argument. Strapping his knife to his belt, he started to follow the women.
Noriel and Darann each took one of his arms. “You will not. To let them know you strangers live here could bring death on all of us. Let those with experience handle this, lass.”
Egil stared at them. He started to tell them, bitterly and in detail, how far too far they had gone. Arona, a young maid, was being sent out—against all prudence and propriety!—to meet strangers, while he stayed home like a field hand in her father's service. He spat on the ground. Then he stopped. Darann was his employer. Field hand in her father's service was exactly what he was, until he established himself. Tasting gall in his mouth, he went back to hitching up the mule. This would have to change.
Eager with curiosity, Arona followed the women to the trailhead, where a band of strangers astride tame horses waited. She caught her breath in fear. They wore no bird-masks nor helmets, but they were Falconers in form. But this is what Egil will look like when grown, she thought suddenly.
The leader was almost as young as Egil, though he had hair on his face like a goat. He addressed the women with Egil's gravity, using the tongue Arona had been hearing from the strangers all season. “Do not be afraid,” he said very slowly and carefully. “Your men have sent us to help you.”’
Another Falconer visit to endure, so soon after the last?
The young male must have noticed their dismay, for he repeated, “Do not be afraid. The Falconers are our
allies. We will give all the courtesy due our sisters, mothers, or daughters.”
One of his troop stared around at the huts, all torn down, and exclaimed in a rough voice that was almost a shout, “What in the name of the Gods has happened here?” Then he checked himself. “Oh. The Turning.”
“We will help you rebuild your homes,” the young leader said, and shouted an order. The men of the pack train dismounted and sprang into action, working like daughters of one mother. When the women rose to share the work, the men waved them aside. “You just keep a fire burning and cook what we provide,” the leader said in a kindly tone. “I'm sure you must all be pretty hungry by now.”
An even younger man was looking at the youngest girls as if to see what lay beneath the crude and ugly veils. Asta Lennisdaughter looked up and marveled, “You're so strong! I couldn't do all that.”
The young man smiled. “You don't have to. That's what we're here for.”
The leader looked up sharply, frowning in puzzlement. “I was told you ladies did not speak?” The oldest woman among them stood up and gestured drawing her veil across her mouth, sharply. Asta fell silent. The leader watched this byplay, frowning more deeply. “I was sent here to find out what you needed,” he addressed the eldest of the group. “Food? Medicines? Seed grain?”
The eldest bowed her head and mimed the acts of hoeing, shoveling, sawing, and chopping. The young male leader scowled. “I understand your need for labor, my lady, but we cannot stay long. I wish we could, but needs must… .” His voice trailed off and he scowled again.
The eldest shook her head and fingered the iron fittings on the pack horses, then, very gingerly, the long knife that hung at the leader's belt. She was not understood. The women looked at each other silently. Then Marra Annetsdaughter, normally a trembling rabbit, spoke up with more courage than any woman there knew she possessed. “Tools,” she said in a quavering voice. “Hoes. Knives. Axes. Shovels. Metal. And salt. We have no salt where we live. We will trade pots, weavings, jewelry.”
