by Joan Wolf
He shrugged. “I will just have to put these back on.”
“Those clothes will only smell you up again.”
He shrugged once more.
“I’ll fetch a fresh shirt for you,” she offered.
“Will you, minnow? Go to the men’s cave and ask whoever is there to give you one. They know where my things are kept. And trousers, too. I have a clean pair.”
“All right.” Nel handed him the soapwort and ran off, Nigak loping beside her.
Ronan went along the river to a place where the shore was screened from the homesite by a stand of birch and pine trees. Swiftly, he stripped off his clothes and waded into the freezing river. His teeth chattered as he began to work up some suds with the soapwort. He hoped Nel would hurry.
She must have run full speed, for by the time he was ready to come out, she was back with his clothes. She had also brought an old deerskin for him to use as a towel.
“Good girl,” he said, taking it from her and beginning to rub himself briskly. When he had finished, she handed him his trousers.
“How come you don’t have any hair on your chest?” she asked him when he had tied the leather drawstring around his waist and was reaching for his shirt.
He shrugged. “None ever grew there. I don’t know why.”
“It grew everywhere else.”
He grinned.
“I haven’t started to grow hair anywhere,” she said sadly. “My stepmother said the other day that I would probably not reach initiation until I was as old as Fali.”
“Don’t pay her any mind,” he advised. He was running his fingers through his newly washed hair to untangle it. Then, as he began to rebraid it, he asked pointedly, “Aren’t you going to wash? You were gutting fish too.”
She gave him a sunny smile. “I am going right now to wash my hands.”
He finished tying the leather thong that fastened his braid and shook his head. She tried another tack. “Ronan, I was nice enough to get your clothes for you…” Then, as he began to walk toward her, she wailed, “The water is so cold!”
“You don’t have to take off all your clothes. Just roll up your trousers. Here, I’ll do it for you.” He dropped down onto his heels and began to roll the deerskin trousers up to her knees.
Her legs had lengthened in the last year, but they were still thin as sticks, he thought. Her skin was beautiful, though, creamy white and smooth as ivory. Except for the scar on her right calf. He remembered the day she had got that scar, climbing a sheer rock face after a stranded baby lamb. Nel and her animals! he thought, finished rolling, and stood up. “Come on, in you go.”
She cast him a long-suffering look, but took the soapwort from his hand and waded in. “Wash your hair,” he said as she bent to wet her face.
“Ronan!” It was a cry of anguish. “I’m cold!”
“Your hair looks almost as black as mine,” came the inexorable reply. “Wash it.”
“But my shirt will get wet and my stepmother will scold.”
“Take it off then. I’ll hold it for you.”
The sun was setting and the clear air was cold. The river water was very cold. But Nel’s hair was very dirty, Ronan thought. That stepmother of hers would never think to wash it for her. If he didn’t watch out for her, she would be utterly filthy. Nel herself, unfortunately, placed little value on personal cleanliness.
He watched as she pulled the shirt over her head. Her poor skinny little body was covered in gooseflesh. He caught the shirt she tossed to him, crossed his arms over his own chest for warmth, and watched as she washed her hair. “Come here,” he said when she had finished, “and I’ll dry it for you.”
She splashed through the water to stand in front of him, and he took the deerskin and toweled her head. Suddenly she put her arms around his waist and burrowed against him. “I’m s-so cold,” she said.
“Poor little minnow.” She was shivering and he rubbed his hands up and down her back to warm her. His hand looked very dark against her ivory skin. “Come on, get into your shirt and you’ll feel warmer.” She held up her arms and let him pull it over her head. Her damp hair hung down her back, and he raked his fingers through it as he had done with his own and braided it for her.
“Make sure you put a comb through it when you get home,” he ordered. “You have very pretty hair, if only you would take care of it.”
She looked up at him. Her long dark lashes were stuck together with wet. “Guess what I found yesterday, Ronan. A baby scimitar cat.”
He groaned. “Not another orphan, Nel.”
“She is very sweet,” Nel assured him. Her mouth looked suddenly tragic. “But I am afraid that Olma will not let me bring her home.”
Ronan sighed. “I suppose I could fix you some place to keep her.”
Her smile was radiant. “Thank you, Ronan.”
He shook his head, put a hand on the nape of her neck, and walked her back to the camp.
* * * *
Summer came, the reindeer and red deer migrated into the higher pastures, and the hunters of the tribe moved to their summer camp on the Narrow River the better to hunt them. As usual, the Mistress remained at the tribe’s permanent homesite, but for the first time Morna was old enough to accompany the men and the initiated girls.
There was something about the air in the higher altitudes that Ronan particularly loved. It was so clear. One time, during Antelope Moon, he had gone with Neihle through the Buffalo Pass into the valley of the Atata River to trade with the men of the Tribe of the Buffalo, and he had found the heights of the pass wonderfully exhilarating.
The Tribe of the Buffalo followed the Way of Sky God, and Ronan had carefully watched the workings of the tribe during the two days that he and Neihle spent in its caves. Ronan found many of their ways extremely strange. Part of him was excited to see the obvious dominance of the men of the tribe, and part of him was deeply puzzled. Even though the men ruled, he thought they seemed to be missing many of life’s greatest pleasures.
The young unmarried girls, the ones Neihle had obviously brought him to see, were kept separated from the men. They did not mate until they were wed, Ronan was told. The reason for this was that the men of the Buffalo wished to ensure the paternity of their children. Ronan held his tongue, but privately he thought that the men of the Buffalo were fools, What did it matter if another man had fathered your wife’s first child? What Ronan did not understand was that the men of the Red Deer had a different relationship with their children than did the men of the Buffalo. As in all matrilineal societies, a Red Deer child belonged to its mother, whereas a Buffalo child, coming from a patrilineal society, belonged to its father. These differing outlooks accounted for very different attitudes about the importance of a child’s paternity.
* * * *
Summer passed too quickly. The nights were coming faster, and frost had already descended on the highest pastures, when Neihle sought his nephew out one afternoon to invite him to make a return trip to the Tribe of the Buffalo.
“Haras, the chief, has several girls who will need husbands this year,” Neihle said. “I am thinking, Ronan, that you would be happy in the Buffalo tribe.”
Ronan looked up from the hare he was skinning. The two men were alone in front of the big upper cave, and when Ronan did not reply, Neihle added, “The Mistress will give you a good bride price.”
At that, Ronan’s mouth quirked humorlessly. “I am sure of that, Uncle.” He put down his flint knife and rose to his feet. “I am not so sure that I wish to leave my own tribe, however.”
Neihle’s voice was gentle. “I am thinking you will have to, lad, sooner or later.”
Ronan was staring down at his bloody hands. “Why?”
“You know why,” Neihle replied. “This is not a tribe for a male chief, Ronan, and you will be happier in a tribe that is.”
Ronan did not look up. “I would have no claims to be chief in a different tribe, Neihle. Here…here I have claims.”
There
was a startled silence. Then Neihle spoke: “You have no claims here. You are a man and this is a tribe that follows the Goddess. You have grown up here, Ronan. Surely this is something you understand.”
Ronan slowly flexed his bloodstained hands. “If this is so, Neihle, then why do you say the Mistress fears me?”
“She does not fear you for herself,” Neihle said. “It is for Morna that she fears.”
“Sa. She fears for Morna. The Chosen One.” At last Ronan turned to look at Neihle. His mouth was thin. “Wouldn’t you rather be led by me, Neihle, than by Morna?”
“Dhu,” said Neihle out of a suddenly dry throat.
“You see. Arika is right to be fearful of me,” Ronan said.
Silence fell. The day was unusually warm for so late in the year, and Ronan had removed his shirt to save it from the hare’s blood. His torso was still tanned a deep summer brown, and Neihle found himself staring at that wide, well-muscled chest and shoulders. Ronan had long since lost his boyish slenderness, though his waist and hips were slim as ever.
His face…when he had said, “Arika is right to be fearful of me,” there had been such a look on Ronan’s face. Ruthless…almost cruel.
“I am young,” Ronan was saying now, the ruthlessness even more pronounced. “And the Mistress is old.” His dark eyes were cold. “I can wait.”
Neihle felt a shiver run up his spine. He had always thought that Arika’s fear of her son was unreasonable. Never had he imagined that the Mistress might be right, that there might be something in Ronan to fear.
Until now.
“Have you spoken to anyone but me about this?” he asked Ronan sharply.
“Na.” Ronan lowered himself to his heels and once more picked up the sharp flint knife.
Well, at least that was something. Neihle watched his nephew working on the hare and thought about what he might say to make Ronan understand the impossibility of his illicit desire.
“It is true you were the bear slayer,” he began. “It is true that you killed the biggest great stag anyone in the tribe has ever seen. But in this tribe, Ronan, it is not hunting that makes the chief.”
“I know,” Ronan said. “The Mistress’s man is the chief in this tribe.” Neihle stared as if mesmerized at Ronan’s skillful fingers wielding the bloody knife. “But what if the Mistress should choose just one man, Neihle? What if the Mistress should wed?”
“You cannot wed Morna,” Neihle said in bewilderment.
“Not Morna,” Ronan said. “Nel.”
Neihle looked stunned. Ronan looked up from the bloody pile of fur in front of him. “Wouldn’t you rather see Nel as Mistress than Morna, Uncle?” he asked.
Neihle began urgently, “You must not say…”
He was interrupted by a soft feminine voice. “Ronan, I have been waiting for you.” Iva came the rest of the way up the steep path that led to the upper cave and gave Neihle a reproachful look. She put a hand on Ronan’s bare brown shoulder and said to him, “I thought we were going to go fishing together.”
“I have almost finished here,” he answered, his hands busy with the hare. “Be a good girl and wait for me by the river.”
She nodded, ran her fingertips caressingly over the skin of his shoulder, and departed, scrambling down the path to the valley floor.
Neihle watched Iva progress toward the river, his somber face in odd contrast to the enticing sight made by her swinging hips. “You cannot marry Nel, Ronan,” he said at last. “You are too closely related.”
“The Old Woman says not,” Ronan replied.
“Nel and you.” Neihle was very pale.
Ronan smiled, and suddenly all the ruthless arrogance, all the cruelty, was gone, swallowed up in that beguiling grin.
“I promise you I am not a fool, Uncle,” he said, “I know how to bide my time. But do not ask me again to seek a wife from another tribe.”
Morna stood in the arch of the lower cave and watched Ronan cross the valley floor, his deerskin shirt slung over his shoulder. She watched as Iva came out from under a tree to join him, watched as the girl slid her arms around the young man’s waist and leaned her breasts against his bare chest. His dark head bent. He seemed to be saying something into her ear. Then he separated himself from her and went to rinse his hands in the river. When he came back to Iva, he draped an arm around her shoulders and, thus linked, the two of them began to walk together up the river.
Chapter Six
After a full summer of watching Ronan, Morna had decided that she wanted to lie with him. She wanted to find out for herself if what all the other girls said about him was true.
There could be no harm in it, she told herself. He had never been as a brother to her. They would simply keep it to themselves, and no one would ever know.
It never once occurred to her that Ronan might not be as eager for her embraces as she was for his.
She watched for an opportunity to be alone with him, but the tribe lived too close to each other at summer camp and no opportunity presented itself. She decided she would have to wait until they returned to their home caves.
The first snow fell in the upper pastures, and the deer began their migration back to lower altitudes. The hunters of the Tribe of the Red Deer followed.
Buffalo Moon was almost at its end when Pier spotted a buffalo bull in the forest along one of the tribe’s hunting runs. Buffalo were most often found running in great herds on the grass plains to the north of the mountains, but there were a small number of woodland buffalo in the low hills of the Pyrenees, and occasionally they strayed into the territory of the Tribe of the Red Deer. Morna proposed that the initiated boys and girls of the tribe go together the following day to hunt for buffalo.
The opportunity to take a buffalo hide was too good for the tribe to miss, but the Mistress was not pleased with the idea of sending only the youngsters.
“Buffalo are dangerous to hunt,” she said to Morna with a frown. “It will be better to send some of the more experienced hunters after them.”
“We have spent the entire summer weather hunting, Mother,” Morna pointed out. “We are experienced hunters too.”
“Buffalo are dangerous,” the Mistress repeated.
“Sa.” Morna smiled. “That is the fun.”
She meant it, Arika saw. Morna, in fact, was an excellent hunter—the best among the girls, as good as most of the boys. She was fearless and swift and strong. Upon their return from summer camp, several of the men had praised her ability to Arika.
It was important for the tribe to see Morna at her best.
“All right,” Arika finally agreed. “The young people may hunt the buffalo.”
The bull Pier had seen had been in rut, and rutting bulls were easy to locate because of their bellowing, so it was with high hopes of success that the hunting party of twelve young people set off from the Greatfish River in the direction of the Volp. The day was very warm for the season, and the sky was hazy with the unusual heat. The hunters wore their buckskin clothing without the reindeer fur vests that were the usual gear for this time of year.
“Buffalo meat is delicious in the autumn,” Tosa said, as she walked behind Morna along the reindeer track that wound up and down the wooded hills. “There is usually lots of fat.” Tosa made a slurping noise, indicating her anticipation of this treat.
Morna, who was greedy for many things but not usually for food, wrinkled her small, perfect nose.
When they reached the area where the bull had been sighted, Morna suggested that the hunters split up.
The others stared at her in surprise.
“Na,” Ronan said. “That would be dangerous.” He looked at her sternly. “A bull in rut is an evil-tempered creature, Morna.”
“I thought the initiates of the Red Deer were men, not boys,” Morna said. “Are you afraid?” And she let her gaze trail slowly from one young male face to the next, a look of amusement was in her eyes.
“Of course we are not afraid!” Adun blustered. He w
as seconded loudly by the rest of the boys.
Morna’s eyes came to Ronan and stopped. “I have always been told that buffalo bulls travel alone during the rutting season in search of cows unattended by a male,” she said. “I am thinking we will have a better chance of finding the bull if we spread out rather than keep together in one pack.”
Dana, a pretty blue-eyed girl, reached out to take Tyr’s hand. “Perhaps Morna is right,” she said softly. “Perhaps we should split up. We can always climb a tree if we get into trouble with the bull.”
Tyr looked at her; then he looked at Ronan and raised his eyebrows. Ronan’s mouth tightened, but he shrugged his shoulders, effectively leaving the decision up to the group.
They decided to split up into couples, rutting being on the minds of more than the buffalo on this hazy autumn afternoon.
To everyone’s surprise, Morna went with Ronan. This she managed by the simple expedient of announcing that she would be his partner, a decision that obviously dismayed Iva and Cala as well as several of the boys who had hoped to go with Morna. Ronan gave his sister a single hard look, but made no comment.
“If you locate the bull, give the tribe’s hunting call,” he said to the others; then he lifted his spear and turned purposefully into the forest. Morna followed.
She did not try to talk to him. Morna had never been a great one for talking. She followed after him, watching in silence the buckskin-clad back, slim hips, long legs and midnight black braid which were all she could see of him at present. Their footfalls made no noise on the forest path.
The air was heavy, almost sultry. From somewhere deep in the forest a cave hyena screeched. Birds flew up into the air, crying in alarm. Morna saw the shadow of a deer flit through the deeper part of the woods. Ronan continued to push on through the trees until he had reached the game trail he was aiming for.
The hazy sun spilled through the trees onto the beaten dirt of the narrow game trail, and the boy and girl began to walk along it on silent moccasined feet. The smell of pine was heavy in the unusually warm autumn air. Small creatures scurried in the undergrowth, and overhead a golden bird circled lazily above the treetops.
