The praise went over her head. She ran to Erith's house but Jiya wasn't there.
‘Better she stays away,’ Erith grumbled, ‘for all of us.’
The smelters were clearing up. None of them had seen her aunt. Thum came to help her look. They checked the other roundhouses and all three druid lodges. No one had seen Jiya since morning, nor did anyone seem troubled by her disappearance.
‘She wanders,’ Ruan reminded her. ‘You know that.’
‘Not here, she doesn't,’ Skaaha yelled. ‘She wouldn't leave me!’ But Jiya would, when the mood took her, and she knew that too. Dread settled in her belly. Pushing through beasts returning for the night, she and Thum searched animal pens, disturbing cattle, annoying the milkers. They scoured the copse, the riverbank, the shore. Climbing half-way up the slope, they scanned the hills, the valley, the sea, even the far shores of Alba. There was no sign of Jiya.
Supper was fresh mussels and salty oysters followed by mutton stew. Skaaha ate little. Jiya didn't return to eat. The atmosphere was tense. Erith had ostracized Ard, shunning him. The evening story was told by her new bedmate, Gern. It was a story of a great battle between wind and fire that began with a careless boy in the forge. A dull story from a dull man, Skaaha huffed, only half listening. She wouldn't tell hers, not without Jiya to hear it.
Nights passed. Jiya didn't reappear to join their morning routine. Days came and went. Skaaha learned more new things: how to make charcoal, how to smelt iron, how to beat cold metal. Tides rose and fell. When work was over, she and Thum played games, climbed trees and rockfaces or raced each other through moor or marshland. The moon waxed and waned. Ruan stayed close by wherever she went, and in the evenings, taught her the meaning of night, the patterns and movement of stars. The cross-quarter day approached, the great fire-festival of Lunasa grew near and Skaaha forgot the story she might have told.
One morning, as the moon grew full again, the dripping of rain woke her. Rising, she peered out at the grey drizzle. Water puddled in the draining ditch around the house, dripping from the thatch. It was warm and dry inside, cold and wet out. A warrior who can't move is finished, Kerrigen's voice said, deep and strong in Skaaha's head. But that life, like her mother, was dead. She was becoming a smith, not a warrior. There was no point to her routine now. A weight had settled in her heart since Jiya left, stealing her lightness. Maybe it was time to stop.
Thum came splashing over from the smelters house, already stripped.
‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘It's only rain.’
‘A curse on your blood,’ she yelled back, but unwilling to appear weak, she hauled off her nightshirt, hung it inside the doorway so it would stay dry, and ran out.
The boy had improved greatly during the last moon. He rolled almost as fast as she did, limbs tucked well in. His handstands and cartwheels grew confident, but he remained weak in the jumps. His eagerness was infectious, dispelling Skaaha's black mood. She showed him how to use rising ground to gain height, to run and push off from it. Intending only to demonstrate how to rise higher, on landing she couldn't resist following with three handsprings. When she stopped, almost at the shore, she was looking at a longboat drawn up on it, at Jiya, who sat in it looking back at her, wild and ferocious, and at a dozen helmeted warriors with bristling moustaches, all fully armed for battle, who strode up the beach towards her.
7
Thinking she saw a vision, Skaaha wiped the drizzle from her eyes. The warriors were still coming, and almost on her. She turned her head towards Thum.
‘Invaders!’ she shrieked. ‘Invaders!’ She ran towards him, still shouting. ‘They've got Jiya. Wake everybody!’ As the boy ran to the forge-keeper's roundhouse, Skaaha dashed into the forge, grabbed the nearest weapon and skelped back towards the shore. The unwelcome visitors had just stepped off the shingle on to the grass when she pelted at them, a wet, naked girl with long plaited hair flying out behind her, brandishing a sword.
‘What the blazes!’ the leader exclaimed. The iron blade plunged into his middle. The girl, unable to stop on the slippery ground, thumped into him as he doubled over, clutching his gut. The men on either side of him drew their swords.
Skaaha, shocked at her success, stepped backwards, looking for blood spurting through the warrior's fingers. An arm caught her round the throat. It was Ard, pinning her against him as he pulled her back out of reach of the assaulted man.
‘What are you doing,’ he spluttered, ‘trying to get hurt?’
The leader of the warriors wheezed, pushing away the support offered by one of his men. ‘I'm only winded,’ he said. ‘Are we needing swords for child's play? Put those away.’ He slapped at the nearest blade and the weapons were hastily sheathed.
‘There is no edge on this,’ Ard said, yanking the half-made weapon from Skaaha's wet fingers. ‘As well for you,’ he threatened in her ear.
‘You don't understand,’ she yelped, wriggling. ‘They've got Jiya!’ Her head slipped through the crook of Ard's arm. She darted forwards, and seeing the lead warrior stoop to catch her, dropped on to her back and slid the last stride-length over the sodden grass. As she slid, she drew her right knee back, aimed for his testicles and kicked out hard with the ball of her right foot.
‘Name of Luna,’ the warrior gasped, collapsing to his knees, hands clutching his throbbing genitals.
Skaaha turned over, rapidly scrabbling out of the way. Her head jerked, her hands and feet lost purchase on the wet ground. She was lifted, by her plait, into the air and held there, at arm's length, kicking.
‘Wherever you got this, Ard,’ the red-haired warrior who held her said, ‘you should tie it up when you have callers, to a branch of yon tree.’
Hands gripped Skaaha's ankles, Ruan's hands, before she got the measure of her situation and lashed out again.
‘Be still, Skaaha,’ he said. ‘These men are from Ardvasar, protectors, not enemies.’ And to the warrior, ‘I'll take her now, Fion.’
As she was lowered, cautiously, into Ruan's keeping, Ard helped the grimacing leader to his feet, apologizing for his daughter.
‘Sorry you're hurt, Vass,’ he added, ‘not that she has spirit.’
‘Daughter?’ Vass grunted. ‘Fast as a hare and slippery as a seal with a kick like a thrawn mare! If you could sell me that as a weapon, I'd pay any price.’
‘The daughter I made with Kerrigen,’ Ard explained.
‘Ah, that explains it.’ Vass looked at the bedraggled, muddy girl with new respect. ‘Kerrigen's daughter.’ He limped a careful step towards her. ‘I would've wished your mother a longer life,’ he said, ‘and that she'd taught you sweeter ways to greet an uncle.’
‘Kerrigen had no brother.’ Skaaha wasn't fooled. ‘And you have her only sister in your boat!’
‘Bites and barks,’ the warrior said, turning to Ard. ‘Next time you're in a Danu bed, brother, best keep that’ – he gripped Ard's genitals – ‘between your own legs.’ Then he hollered with laughter, and the two men embraced each other.
Skaaha stood in the rain in front of Ruan, watching her father usher the warriors into the roundhouse like honoured guests. Ruan still had a grip of her plait, the only part she could be held by in the wet. She felt a fool. Not only that, but Thum stood watching, hopping from one foot to the other, looking shamed.
‘I should've said,’ he muttered. ‘Lunasa.’ He pointed vaguely skywards. ‘They always come.’
‘But you ran!’
‘To tell Erith they were here. I couldn't find her.’
‘You knew and didn't tell me!’ she shrieked. Ruan's grip of her plait tugged.
‘Enough,’ the druid said. ‘Go home, Thum.’ The boy ran off. Ruan turned Skaaha by her hair to face him. ‘I will let you go and you will dress. Then you will serve your uncle and our guardians with ale. Understand?’
‘What about Jiya?’
‘What about me?’ Jiya strode towards them, out of the boat and unrestrained, every inch herself except for the wildness in her eye
s.
‘Jiya!’ Skaaha jerked towards her. Ruan let go her hair, and she ran to throw her arms round her aunt, drawing instant comfort from the bite of leather and the smear of wet fur against her bare skin. ‘I thought they had you tied.’
Jiya glanced at the priest. ‘Not yet,’ she said, beaming, before resting her cheek on the girl's wet hair. ‘I went to train the Ardvasar warriors. They've had no one since Kerrigen died.’
‘My mother taught those men?’
Jiya nodded. ‘Where did you think she went when Donal came to tutor us?’
‘Out of his way.’ No one had said. ‘I thought she just didn't like him.’
‘That too,’ Jiya agreed. ‘Come, you're shivering.’
Ruan stood in the rain, watching them go inside. Suli, his high priest, believed Jiya guarded Skaaha, and helped guide her. But the woman's body, mind and spirit were not balanced. Capricious, with unknowable ways, she was a gifted warrior made dangerous by erratic moods and visions she couldn't control. Her return threatened the progress he'd made with his task. He let his breath slow. His life had lasted twenty suns, almost twice that of Skaaha. About the time she was born, his priesthood had begun. Ten more circles of the sun would pass before he ceased to be a novice and could let his beard grow. There was much to learn, and his burden was heavy.
The warriors had come to celebrate Lunasa, the festival of fostering and fecundity which marked the end of summer. Reclining in the forge-keeper's house beside his brother, their leader, Vass, tucked into steaming fish stew and watched a subdued Skaaha serve drink to his men.
‘Mara won't be pleased she's here,’ he observed. ‘Grudges cling to her.’
‘I've been Erith's a long time,’ Ard reminded him. ‘She lived with that.’
‘You think it was about you?’ Vass snorted. ‘A bone for Kerrigen and Mara to fight over is all you were. So's your daughter.’ He swallowed a mouthful of ale. ‘Kerrigen married you to get that girl.’
‘And now she's in the afterlife where Mara can't get at her.’ Ard gestured a toast with his horn. ‘Haven't you more to worry about, with Mara controlling you lot?’
‘Ignoring us,’ Vass corrected, wiping froth from his long moustache. ‘We heard she hunted a thief. But she's not been near, or sent a tutor. Jiya was a gift.’
‘That'll cheer Erith’ – Ard hauled his wife's young son back from the hearth – ‘if Jiya stays with you.’
His brother glanced around the vast, shadowy interior of the roundhouse. ‘Where is Erith? I haven't had my welcome yet.’
‘Shh.’ Ard covered the child's ears, mouthing words. ‘She's the goddess.’
At each of Bride's four festivals, the creator appeared from her underground home, transfigured with the season to sanctify that stage of life. At Lunasa, as the moon waxed red with summer's failing sunlight, she came as Telsha, the foster-mother, who began the harvest. Preparing to play her, Erith lodged, hidden for the last three days, in the hillside cavern behind the village, its entrance screened by curtains of corn garlanded with plaited corn-dollies and rowan branches rich with red berries. In the larder-keeper's house, Lethra the crone supervised the cauldron of Luna, aided by the settlement's two female druids. The Telsha honey stewed, small flesh-coloured, nippled mushrooms simmering slowly in bubbling mead.
When the rain stopped, Ruan led the men up the hill to choose a strong tree whose straight trunk would form the pillar round which the fire would be built. The honour of placing it fell to the person who could throw it so it turned over on its end to fall pointing directly at the waiting hole. The honour of bedding Telsha went to whoever came closest. Erith was much prized. Pregnant women were renowned for their appetites, experienced in giving and receiving pleasure, their swollen bellies voluptuous, breasts firm with the promise of milk.
Skaaha watched the competitors line up to toss the caber, Jiya among them. Her aunt was not the only woman. Some liked to bed other women, just as men sometimes preferred other males. It was the way of things. She had already disturbed one of the warriors mounting one of the smelters among the scrub while she searched for kindling, kindling that would need to be dried on the hearth after the morning's rain before the bonfire could be lit. The two men were unperturbed, unable to contain their excitement at meeting again. Skaaha didn't care what adults did for pleasure. But Erith didn't like Jiya, and she was sure her aunt disliked the forge-keeper equally.
‘Are you really going to throw?’ she asked, when Jiya called her over to tie on the leather wristbands.
‘If I can lift it, I can throw it,’ Jiya said. ‘Pull them tighter.’ Skaaha tugged the thongs, wondering at the broad white scars around her aunt's wrists as she tightened the bands. ‘But it's Erith,’ she said, frowning.
‘That's why,’ Jiya said. ‘I want to make the bitch squeal, and I want him’ – she nodded to Ard who stood in line with his arm round Vass's shoulder – ‘to hear.’
‘You can't hurt her,’ Skaaha was shocked. ‘She's pregnant.’
‘The pain of pleasure,’ Jiya grinned. ‘One day you'll know.’
The furnace-keeper, a huge noman whose dual gender gave her female status, was third in line. A lover of shiny things, Kenna dripped with beads and rings. Despite her powerful arms, she couldn't throw the caber. Her legs gave out. The tree trunk toppled sideways. Everyone ran screaming, mostly with delight, out of the way. When Ard's turn came, he had the advantage. He'd cut the tree to suit himself and made a good toss. It landed almost true, half a stride left of the waiting hole. His brother, Vass, was next, but he stood aside to let Jiya go first.
The four carriers trotted back with the caber. Jiya linked her fingers. The base was lowered into her hands, trunk resting on her shoulder. The weight told on her immediately, but her strong warrior stance kept her balanced. She breathed deep and set off, taking rapid strides to the mark where she stopped, planted her feet and squatted. The caber swung forwards, naturally, off her shoulder. It drew a sweet line. Then came the toss. Jiya straightened her legs, thrust upwards, and as the far end swung towards the ground, pulled the small end back above her head and let go. It rose beautifully. For a moment the trunk was planted upright again then it went over.
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ the crowd called, applauding wildly as the caber swung gracefully down to land, half a stride to the right of the hole. Ruan, who, with the two female druids, was judging, declared a draw with Ard.
The smith congratulated Jiya. ‘Unless Vass does better,’ he offered, ‘we might toss something smaller to decide.’ He drew a silver coin from his pocket, held it out. Bedding Telsha might repair his marriage. Jiya flipped the coin over. It had the same design on both sides.
‘We'll throw dice,’ she said.
Vass decided the matter with a perfect toss, howling his triumph before setting the caber in the hole. As the druids played a lively jig, the fire was quickly built.
When darkness fell, just before moonrise, everyone gathered on the green. Skaaha stood with Jiya, gripping her aunt's tunic as excitement grew. Dressed in ceremonial robes, the druids beat their drums and began to chant, invoking the goddess. Warriors and villagers joined in, the rhythm rising in the dark, echoing from the hills, calling on Telsha. As the full moon rose behind them, its light illuminated the cavern entrance. Drums and voices ceased. The shimmering curtain of corn parted. Wearing a moon-yellow dress and plaited corn wreath, the sacred foster-mother emerged. A great roar of joy rose from the crowd. Beside her disgruntled aunt, Skaaha controlled her urge to bellow with the rest. It was only Erith, pretending.
Exuberant music struck up. The goddess took the blazing torch from Vass, carried it to the waiting stack and thrust it into the dry kindling. Soon the fire roared. Telsha crowned Vass her Lord of Harvest. Together, they toasted Lunasa. Summer was over.
‘Never mind, Jiya,’ Skaaha commiserated with her aunt. ‘Vass won't please her in bed as much as you would have.’
‘I don't care about her,’ Jiya groaned. ‘It was for Ard. So he
would know pain in his groin like the ache he planted in me.’ She stalked over to the drink cauldrons.
Skaaha hurried behind. ‘Erith keeps him out of her bed,’ she said, hoping to cheer the despondent warrior. ‘And hardly speaks to him, just about work.’
‘But she doesn't divorce him.’ Jiya snatched up a goblet and held it out to be filled with Telsha honey. ‘Sorry – he said sorry, to her – for lying with me!’
Ruan was serving. His ladle hovered over the narcotic brew. ‘The cordial is better,’ he suggested, nodding to the other cauldron.
Jiya grinned, showing her teeth. ‘For babies at the breast and druid priests,’ she agreed. Plunging her cup into the headier liquid, she drew it out, brimming over. ‘I drink for Lunasa’ – she leaned over the cauldron, nose to nose with Ruan, still grinning as if she made a great joke – ‘then maybe I come to your lodge tonight and fuck with you. What then, druid? What then?’ Without waiting for an answer, she strode off to seat herself near the bonfire.
Not knowing what to say, Skaaha held out her goblet, teeth bared, grinning widely with pretend humour, just like her aunt. Ruan filled her cup with cordial.
Next morning, the games began. Skaaha joined in, her physical dexterity a winning gift. Villagers ran races, walked hot charcoal, jumped hurdles and threw hammers, rocks and boulders the size of cauldrons. All three druids joined in sling-shot competitions. Days passed. The warriors' prowess with bows and spears was tested. They wrestled, boxed and fought with blind swords. Nights were spent eating, drinking, dancing and singing, storytelling, reciting poetry and, for those with wits, energy, desire and a willing partner, copulating.
By the last evening, most people had won something, along with headaches or bruises, but the warriors were stars. A final tug-of-war crowned them champions of Lunasa. Telsha gathered children who were leaving birth mothers and gifted them, in turn, to the foster-mothers who would rear them. Finally, she raised a celebratory horn with Vass before the last consummation of their brief union. Come morning, Lunasa would be over and autumn's work begun. Before that, there was more festival brew to drink, and a last night of dancing to enjoy.
Warrior Daughter Page 6
