by Jane Yolen
As casually as she could manage, Jenna asked, “And do they bring a light then?”
Carum was not fooled by her tone. He already knew something of her shadow sister. Anyone who spent time with a mountain warrior woman had had a chance to see blanket companions at work, and Carum had spent a great deal of time with Jenna over the past five years of almost continuous warfare. But he did not understand their relationship, not entirely. He thought Skada merely a lowlander who fought furiously at Jenna’s side. He had never seen her by day, only at night. There was some strangeness there.
“Is she here?” he whispered. “Your dark sister? Did she slip in somehow? Or is she outside with a legion?”
“She’s around,” Jenna answered. “By herself. You know she dislikes company. Now, about that light?”
“They bring a single torch. And they set it on the wall—there.” He pointed near the door. “And all the good it does is to show us how degraded we have become in ten short days.” He laughed, a short, angry bark. “Is it not ironic what a little bit of dirt and damp and dark and a delicate diet can do to beggar a man?”
“Carum, this does not sound like you.”
“This does not look like me, either,” he answered. “And I am glad of the dark this moment, for I would not have you, my white goddess, see me thus.”
“I have seen you many ways,” Jenna answered, “and not all of them handsome. Do you remember the Long Acre march? And the fording of Crookback’s Ravine?”
The one other standing man put his hand on Jenna’s arm. “They put something in the food, lady. It takes a man’s will away. It eats at his soul. And Longbow has eaten the food longer than the rest of us. Do not tax him with his answers. We are all like that now—high one minute, low the next. I am the latest to arrive, save yourself. And I feel the corrosion of will already.”
Jenna turned toward the shadow man and put her hand on his cheek. “Carum Longbow, it will be better by and by. I promise.”
Longbow laughed again, that hoarse, unfamiliar chuckle. “Women’s promises …” he began before his voice bled away, like an old wound reopened.
“You know I keep my promises,” Jenna said under her breath to him. “All I need is that light.”
Longbow’s voice grew strong again. “It will do you no good. It does none of us any good. They hold the light up to the hole in the door and then make us lie down on the floor, one atop another. Then they count us aloud before they open the door. After each lock is opened, they count us again.”
“Better and better,” said Jenna mysteriously.
“If you have a plan, tell it to me,” demanded Longbow.
“Tell it to all of us,” came a voice from the floor. The others chimed in with gritty, tough, angry voices.
Jenna smiled into the dark, but none could see it. “Just be sure,” she said slowly, “that I lie on top of the pile.”
The men gave their muttering laughs, and Carum laughed loudest. “Of course. It would not do to have the white goddess underneath.”
Jenna laughed with them. “Though there have been times …” she said.
“Now that,” said Longbow, his voice again on the upswing note, “you do well.”
Jenna ignored him and walked over to the door. She held her hand up into the little sliver of light. Skada’s hand appeared faintly against the far wall. Jenna waved, and was delighted to see Skada return it.
“Will you be ready?” she called to the wall.
The shadowy figures ranged along the floor grunted their assent. Carum called out, “I will.” But Jenna had eyes only for the hand on the wall. It made a circle between thumb and finger, the goddess’s own sign. For the first time Jenna felt reason to hope.
Jenna forced herself to sleep, to give her body time to recover from the long climb she had had to endure. Curled up next to Longbow, she forced herself to breathe slowly, willing each limb to relax in turn. She knew she could put herself to sleep within minutes even on the cold, damp, sandy floor. If it was an uncomfortable bed, she had been in worse. She stopped herself from remembering the night she had spent in the belly of the dragon beast of Kordoom. Or the time she had passed the dark hours astraddle the horns of the wild Demetian bull-man.
When she slept at last, her dreams were full of wells, caves, and other dark, wet holes.
The clanging of a sword against the iron bars of the window woke them all.
“Light count,” came the call through the slit. “Roll up and over.”
The prisoners dragged themselves to the wall and attempted a rough pyramid, not daring to complain. Jenna was the last to sit up, and she watched as the sturdiest four, including Carum, lay down on the floor. The next heaviest climbed on top of them. Then two almost skeletal forms scaled wearily onto the pile, distributing their weight as carefully as possible. At last the slightest, almost a boy, scrambled up to perch a bit unsteadily on top. All this Jenna could see with the help of the additional light shining through the door slit.
The sound of the guard’s voice counting began. “One, two, three …”
“Wait, you misbegotten miscalculators,” came the smooth mockery of Lord Kalas’ voice. “Don’t deny me the best. You have all forgotten our lady friend, our latest guest. There seems no room at the top for her. Had you planned laying her somewhere else?” He laughed at his own words and his men echoed his laughter a beat behind.
The exhausted prisoners rolled off their pyramid and ranged around Longbow. He started, slowly, to explain what must be done.
“Start with five on the bottom this time,” suggested Lord Kalas. His voice threaded out with a bored drawl. “Sooner or later another will come along to be added to your pyramid of lost hopes. Though why anyone would want to rescue Carum Longbow is beyond me. However, heroes being heroes, I expect another one soon. And then I shall have a full pyramid again. I do like pyramids. They are an altogether pleasing figure.”
The prisoners began again.
“Why do you do this?” Jenna whispered to Longbow.
“We tried denying them their pleasure,” Carum said, “and they simply refused to feed us until we stacked ourselves at their command.” He lay down on the floor, in the middle of four men. Four crawled on top of them. Then the boy nestled on them, and Jenna climbed carefully on top of the pile, leaving a space between the boy and herself. She settled gingerly, trying to distribute her weight.
“Will they bring the light now?” Jenna whispered to the man under her.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Look, here it comes.”
Two men—one with a torch—entered the room. They had their swords drawn. Lord Kalas, disdaining to draw his own weapon, entered after them.
The light-bearer stood at the head of the pile of bodies, counting them aloud once again. The second went to a corner, sheathed his sword, and took a bag off his shoulders. He emptied its contents onto the floor. Jenna made out a pile of moldy breads. She wrinkled her nose. Then she looked up at the wall nearest the door, where shadows thrown by the flickering torch moved about.
“Now!” she shouted, flinging herself from the pile.
She calculated her roll to take her into the shoulder of the guard at the pyramid’s peak. His torch flew into the air, illuminating another hurtling body that seemed to spring right out of the far wall. It was Skada. She rammed into the unsuspecting Lord Kalas, knocking him forward just as he had unsheathed his sword.
Jenna reached for the guard’s weapon as Skada grabbed for Lord Kalas’. They completed identical forward rolls in a single fluid motion, then stood up, their newly captured weapons at the ready.
Longbow and the other lordlings had at the moment of impact collapsed their pyramid and leaped to their feet. They surrounded the guard with the bread, and stripped him of his sword and a knife in his boot. Carum now held the torch aloft.
“There were eleven of you,” Lord Kalas said. “I counted you myself. Where did this twelfth come from?”
Skada laughed. “From a darker
hole than you will ever know, Lord Kalas.”
Jenna hissed through her teeth, and Skada said no more. For the mountain women had been sworn never to reveal the secret of the shadow sisters, nor tell of the years of training where they met and mastered the dark side of their own spirits.
Lord Kalas smiled. “Could it be … but no … the mages tell of a practice in the highlands of raising black demons, mirror images. I thought it was a tale. Mages do not lie, but they do not always tell all the truth.”
Skada made a mocking bow. “Truth has many ears. You must believe what you yourself see.”
“I see sisters who may have had the same mother, but different fathers,” Kalas said, his mouth twisted in a scornful smile. “It is well known that mountain women take pleasure in many men.”
“Do not speak of my mother,” Jenna said threateningly. “Do not soil her with your piji mouth.”
Kalas laughed and in the same moment dashed the torch from Longbow’s hand. It fell to the floor, guttered, and almost went out. At the same moment, his sword fell from the darkness at his feet. He bent down and picked it up.
“Piji,” Kalas said, “stains the teeth. But it gives one wonderful night sight.” His sword clanged against Jenna’s.
“Dark or light,” cried Jenna, “I will fight you. Stand back, Carum. Keep the others away.”
Lord Kalas was well versed in the traditional thrusts and parries, but he counted too much on his night sight. What he did not know was that Jenna had learned her swordplay first in a darkened room before progressing to the light. And though she could not see as well as he in the blackness, she had been taught to trust her ears even before her eyes. She could distinguish the movement of a thrust that was signaled by the change in the air and the hesitation of a breath. She could smell Lord Kalas, the slight scent of fear overlayered with the constant piji odor. In less than a minute it was over.
“Light,” Jenna called.
Carum picked up the torch and held it overhead. Out of the damp sand, it fluttered to life again smokily.
Lord Kalas stood without his sword, and Jenna held her blade point in his belly. Behind him stood Skada, her blade in his back. If he moved, he would be spitted like a sheep over a roasting pit.
“Sisters indeed,” said Skada. “But, as you have noted, not quite alike. I do not have your blood on my sword—yet.”
Jenna turned to Longbow. “Keep the torch high and stand at the head of the line. Skada and I will be at the back. Look forward, my lord. Always forward. Skada and I will follow.”
They went out of the dungeon in a line. Outside it was daylight, and Skada, in an instant, was gone. The sun was at its height. But Longbow, as Jenna had asked, never once looked back.
The History:
In the sixth century AEFM (after the establishment of the First Matriarchy), in the second decade of the so-called Gender Wars, there rose a woman warrior of phenomenal battle skill but little formal education. Her name has been variously given as Jenna, Janna, J’hanna, and Jo-an-enna. She came from a mountain clan known for its great beauty, height, and fair coloring who worshiped the white goddess Alta of the World Tree, hence the name Jo (lover)–an (white)–enna (tree). Swearing blood sisterhood with a woman of the smaller, dark-skinned valley clans, Skada or Skader or Shader (the low-tongue word for dark or shadow), Jo-an-enna and Shader offered their swords to Queen Falta IV. But the blood sisters did not take well to military discipline and were, according to contemporary legion records, dismissed from the regular forces. They were given their swords, a sack of flour, and muster-out pay of forty pesta, as was common. There was a dishonorable mark inked in and then partially erased after their names. Whether the fault lay with one or both is impossible to say at this date. Blanket companions were traditionally treated as one entity in the rigid military system of the day.
The two hired out as bodyguards and occasionally fell in with short-lived mercenary bands that roamed freely over the countryside, and their adventures gave rise to many local legends. The song “Jenna at the Ford” (Carne Ballad 17) is one, as is “Bold Skada and the Merchant’s Lament” (Carne Ballad 46) and the bawdy “Lord Kalas’ Hole” (Carne Ballad 69). The recently revived passion play “Sister Light and Sister Dark” contains many folk motifs that have only tangential connection with the history of Jo-an-enna.
By accident or design (Burke-Senda’s account suggests graphically that serendipity was at work, while Calla-ap-Jones writes convincingly of a Great Matriarchal Plan), the two women rescued the soldier of fortune Carum Longbow from prison. Longbow, later known in the low tongue as Broad-breaker, became the first King of the Low Countries and was famous for bringing down the First Matriarchy and expunging the armies of all female fighters. Whether this was from economic need (Burke-Senda cites the failing birthrates due to the practice of salting soldiers’ food with pedra, a common antiovulent) or passion (Calla-ap-Jones offers striking evidence that Longbow won Jo-an-enna from Skader in a ritual trial by arms, and in revenge Shader killed Sister Light, throwing Longbow into a bloody genocidal frenzy which was levied against every fighting woman in the forces) is not clear. It is ironic, however, that the famous Dark and Light Sisters of the songs, stories, and myths should have been the ones to bring down, all unwittingly, the generous, enlightened, art-centered rule of the first great queens of Alta.
A Personal History by Jane Yolen
I was born in New York City on February 11, 1939. Because February 11 is also Thomas Edison’s birthday, my parents used to say I brought light into their world. But my parents were both writers and prone to exaggeration. My father was a journalist; my mother wrote short stories and created crossword puzzles and double acrostics. My younger brother, Steve, eventually became a newspaperman. We were a family of an awful lot of words!
We lived in the city for most of my childhood, with two brief moves: to California for a year while my father worked as a publicity agent for Warner Bros. films, and then to Newport News, Virginia, during the World War II years, when my mother moved my baby brother and me in with her parents while my father was stationed in London running the Army’s secret radio.
When I was thirteen, we moved to Connecticut. After college I worked in book publishing in New York for five years, married, and after a year traveling around Europe and the Middle East with my husband in a Volkswagen camper, returned to the States. We bought a house in Massachusetts, where we lived almost happily ever after, raising three wonderful children.
I say “almost,” because in 2006, my wonderful husband of forty-four years—Professor David Stemple, the original Pa in my Caldecott Award–winning picture book, Owl Moon—died. I still live in the same house in Massachusetts.
And I am still writing.
I have often been called the “Hans Christian Andersen of America,” something first noted in Newsweek close to forty years ago because I was writing a lot of my own fairy tales at the time.
The sum of my books—including some eighty-five fairy tales in a variety of collections and anthologies—is now well over 335. Probably the most famous are Owl Moon, The Devil’s Arithmetic, and How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight? My work ranges from rhymed picture books and baby board books, through middle grade fiction, poetry collections, and nonfiction, to novels and story collections for young adults and adults. I’ve also written lyrics for folk and rock groups, scripted several animated shorts, and done voiceover work for animated short movies. And I do a monthly radio show called Once Upon a Time.
These days, my work includes writing books with each of my three children, now grown up and with families of their own. With Heidi, I have written mostly picture books, including Not All Princesses Dress in Pink and the nonfiction series Unsolved Mysteries from History. With my son Adam, I have written a series of Rock and Roll Fairy Tales for middle grades, among other fantasy novels. With my son Jason, who is an award-winning nature photographer, I have written poems to accompany his photographs for books like Wild Wings and Color Me a Rhyme.
And I am still writing.
Oh—along the way, I have won a lot of awards: two Nebula Awards, a World Fantasy Award, a Caldecott Medal, the Golden Kite Award, three Mythopoeic Awards, two Christopher Awards, the Jewish Book Award, and a nomination for the National Book Award, among many accolades. I have also won (for my full body of work) the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Grand Master Award, the Catholic Library Association’s Regina Medal, the University of Minnesota’s Kerlan Award, the University of Southern Mississippi and de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection’s Southern Miss Medallion, and the Smith College Medal. Six colleges and universities have given me honorary doctorate degrees. One of my awards, the Skylark, given by the New England Science Fiction Association, set my good coat on fire when the top part of it (a large magnifying glass) caught the sunlight. So I always give this warning: Be careful with awards and put them where the sun don’t shine!
Also of note—in case you find yourself in a children’s book trivia contest—I lost my fencing foil in Grand Central Station during a date, fell overboard while whitewater rafting in the Colorado River, and rode in a dog sled in Alaska one March day.
And yes—I am still writing.
At a Yolen cousins reunion as a child, holding up a photograph of myself. In the photo, I am about one year old, maybe two.
Sitting on the statue of Hans Christian Andersen in Central Park in New York in 1961, when I was twenty-two. (Photo by David Stemple.)
Enjoying Dirleton Castle in Scotland in 2010.
Signing my Caldecott Medal–winning book Owl Moon in 2011.
Reading for an audience at the Emily Dickinson Museum in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 2012.
Visiting Andrew Lang’s gravesite at the Cathedral of Saint Andrew in Scotland in 2011.
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