Sister Light, Sister Dark

by Jane Yolen

  And then Great Alta picked out of the light a weeping child as white as snow, as red as blood, as black as night, and suckled her until the child was still.

  BOOK TWO

  THE BOOK OF LIGHT

  THE MYTH:

  And when Great Alta spoke, her words were slivers of glass. Where the sun struck them, then were her words like shafts of the purest light. Where fell the tears of her daughters, then were the words rainbows. But each time Great Alta’s words were spoken, they reflected back the mind of the listener, shape for shape, shadow for shadow, light for light.

  THE LEGEND:

  There was once a great teacher who came into the Dales from the East with the rising sun. The teacher’s words were so fine, those who heard them said they were like the purest crystal, giving off a high, sweet ringing when touched.

  The teacher lived among the people of the Dales for a year and a day, and then disappeared into the West with the setting sun. No one could say for certain afterward whether the teacher had been a man or a woman, short or tall, fair-skinned or dark. But all the words that the teacher had spoken at moonrise—for the teacher was mute except at the full moon—were gathered up by disciples in the Dales and set down in a book. The Dalites were surprised how small the book was when it was done, and how light, and so it was called the Book of Light.

  THE STORY:

  Jenna was seven years old when she first touched the Book of Light. She stood with the three other girls her age in a straight line, or at least as straight as Marna, the teacher, and Zo, her dark sister, could make them. Selinda always fidgeted. And Alna, who had trouble breathing in the spring, wheezed her way through the ceremony. Only Marga—called Pynt after the small measure—and Jenna were still.

  The priestess gave the line of girls a smile, but there was no warmth in that smile, only a formal lifting of the lips. It looked to Jenna like one of the wolves in the forest near Seldenkirk when frightened off its prey. She had seen a pack once. The priestess’ dark sister gave the same smile, though it seemed infinitely more welcoming.

  Jenna turned slightly so that she could look only straight upon that second smile, but she watched the priestess out of the side of her eye, the way she looked at things in the woods. Alta knew she had tried to please the Mother. But there seemed to be no pleasing her.

  Overhead, the full spring moon illumined the stone altar. From the rowans came a rustling of new leaves as a small wind puzzled through the treetops. For a moment a rag of cloud covered the moon, and the priestess’ dark sister disappeared from her altar-top throne. No one moved until the cloud passed by and the moon called them out again, all the dark ones. Then there was a quiet, contented sigh from the eighty mouths in the amphitheater.

  The priestess lifted her head slightly to check out the skies. There were no other clouds in sight, and so she began. Opening the great leather-bound book on her lap, her pointing finger with its sharpened nail underlining each syllable on the page, she read aloud.

  Jenna could not take her eyes off that nail. No one else was allowed such a hand, nor would want one. Nails such as a priestess had would crack and break in the kitchen or at the forge, would get in the way of a bowstring or knife. Jenna surreptitiously flexed her own hand, wondering what it would feel like to have fingernails like that. She decided against it.

  The priestess’ voice, clear and low, filled the spaces between the girls.

  “And the child of seven summers, and the child of seven autumns, and the child of seven winters, and the child of seven springs shall come to the altar and choose her own way. And when she has chosen, she shall follow that path for seven more years, never wavering in her mind or heart. And thus shall the Chosen Way become the True Way.”

  The priestess looked up from the book where the letters seemed to take the moonlight and fling it back at her, causing little sparks to dance across the bib of her robe.

  “Do you, my children, choose your own way?” she asked.

  Her dark sister looked up at the same time, waiting for their answers.

  “We do,” the four girls answered as they had practiced, only Selinda came in late, for, as usual, she was dreaming about something else and had to be nudged from behind by Marna and Zo.

  Then one by one the girls walked up the stairs to touch the book on the priestess’ lap, Selinda first, for she was the oldest by nine months, and Jenna last. Touch the book, make the vow, name the choice. It was all so simple and not so simple. Jenna shuddered.

  She knew that Selinda would go with her own mother and work the gardens. There she could stare off into space without harm, going into what Marna and Zo called her “green dreams.”

  Alna, also born to a gardener, would choose the kitchen, where she wheezed less and where she would—it was thought—put a bit of weight on her thin bones. She was not happy about the choice, Jenna knew, for she really wanted to stay with her mother and her mother’s dark sister, who babied and spoiled her, holding her through the rough nights when she labored between breath and breath. But every one of the sisters agreed that Alna needed to be as far from the bursting seeds and floating autumn weed silks as possible. The infirmarer, Kadreen, had warned again and again that one day the space between breaths would grow too long and Alna could die out in the garden. It was that warning that had, at last, decided them all. All except Alna, who had cried every night the past month, thinking about her coming exile, so she had told Jenna. But being an obedient child, she would say what had to be said at the Choosing.

  Black-haired Pynt, a warrior’s womb child, would choose the hunter/warrior path despite being so small and fine-boned, her father’s legacy. If they tried to change Pynt’s mind, Jenna knew she would fight them. Pynt would never waver, not for a moment. Loyalty coursed like blood through her veins.

  And what of herself? Mothered by all but fostered by none, Jenna had already tried out many different paths. The gardens made her restless with their even rows. The kitchen was worse—everything in its place. She had even spent months by the priestess’ side, which caused her to bite her nails to the quick, sure evidence that it would be the wrong choice. The fact was, she was happiest out in the forest or when playing warriors’ games such as the wands, though only a few times did the women let a child into their circle. And then she and Pynt had been matched as light sister and dark. It was as if Jenna could see better in the woods than in the confines of the Hame. And next year, once she had chosen, she would be taught the bow and knife.

  Jenna watched as first mousy Selinda, then wheezy Alna, and then strong-minded Pynt mounted the three steps to the altar where the priestess and her dark twin sat on their backless thrones. One by one, the girls placed their right hand on the Book, their left touching the four places that were Alta’s own: head, left breast, navel, groin. Then they recited the words of the oath after the priestess, speaking to her of their choices. What was said became so, so powerful were the words now: Selinda to the garden, Alna to the kitchen, Pynt to the hunt.

  When Pynt came down the stairs, with a big grin on her face, she patted Jenna’s hand. “Her breath is sour,” she whispered.

  After that Jenna found it difficult to take the first step seriously. Her mouth would not stay set in the thin line she had practiced. But once she set foot on the second step, it was different. It brought her closer to her choice. By the time she reached the third step, she found she was trembling. Not with fear of the priestess or awe of the Book, but with a kind of eagerness, like the young kit fox Amalda had rescued and trained, when it was in the presence of the hens. Even when he was not hungry, he trembled with anticipation. That was how Jenna felt.

  Putting her hand on the Book of Light, she was surprised at how cold it was. The letters were raised up and she could feel them impress themselves on her palm. She touched her forehead with her left hand and it felt cool and dry. Then she put her hand over her heart, comforted to feel it beating steadily beneath her fingertips. Quickly she completed the rest of the ritual.
/>   The priestess spoke, and her breath was not so much sour as alien, smelling of age and dignity and the trappings of state.

  “You must say the words after me, Jo-an-enna, daughter of us all.”

  “I will, Mother Alta,” Jenna whispered, her voice cracking suddenly.

  “I am a child of seven springs …” began the priestess.

  “I am a child of seven springs,” Jenna repeated.

  “I choose and I am chosen.”

  Jenna drew in a deep breath. “I choose and I am chosen.”

  The priestess smiled. Jenna saw that it was not such a distant smile after all, but a sad smile and not much practiced.

  “The path I choose is …”

  “The path I choose is …” Jenna said.

  The priestess nodded, her face oddly expectant.

  Jenna took another breath, deeper than the first. So many ways lay open to her at this moment. She closed her eyes to savor it, then opened them and was surprised by the predatory look in the priestess’ face. Jenna turned slightly and spoke to the dark sister, more loudly than she had meant. “A warrior. A huntress. A keeper of the wood.” She sighed, glad to be done with it.

  The priestess did not speak for a moment. She looked almost angry. Then she and her dark sister leaned forward and embraced Jenna, whispering in Jenna’s ears, “Well chosen, warrior.” There was no warmth in it.

  As Jenna walked back down the steps, she heard again the echo of the second thing the priestess alone had whispered in her ear. She wondered if the others had been told the same. Somehow she doubted they had, for the priestess had added, trembling strangely, “Alta’s own chosen child.”

  The lessons began in earnest the next morning. It was not that the woods-days had been a time of play before, but the formal teaching—question and answer, memory tests, and the Game—could begin only after the Choosing.

  “This is thimbleflower,” said Pynt’s mother Amalda, kneeling beside a dull green plant. “Soon it will have flowers that look like little purple bells.”

  “Why is it not called bellflower?” murmured Jenna, but Amalda only smiled.

  “Pretty!” said Pynt, putting out her hand to stroke a leaf.

  Amalda slapped it away, and when Pynt looked offended, said, “Remember, child, Spilled water is better than a broken jar. Do not touch something unless you know what it can do to you. There are thistles that prick, briars that snag, nettles that sting at the touch. Then there are the subtler plants whose poisons reveal themselves only long after.”

  Pynt put her smarting hand to her mouth.

  At Amalda’s signal, both girls knelt down next to her, Jenna close and Pynt, still offended, a little way off. Then her own sunny nature overcame her resentment, and she crowded next to Jenna.

  “Smell these first,” Amalda said, pointing to the leaf of the thimbleflower.

  They leaned over and sniffed. There was a slight, sharp odor.

  “If I let you taste the leaves,” Pynt’s mother said, “you would spit them out quickly.” She shuddered deliberately, and the girls imitated her, Pynt with a broad smile on her face. “But should you swell up with water that will not release itself, should your heart beat too quickly and loudly and Kadreen fears for it, then she would make a tea of the leaves and you would soon be relieved. Only …” And she held a hand up in warning. The girls knew that sign well. It meant they must be silent and listen. “Only beware of this pretty plant. In small doses it is a help to one in distress, but too strong a brew, made with a wicked intent, and the drinker dies.”

  Jenna shivered and Pynt nodded.

  “Mark this place well,” said Amalda. “For we do not pick the leaves until the flower is full out. But Kadreen will be pleased that we have found her a dell full of thimbleflower.”

  The girls looked around.

  “Jenna, how have you marked it?”

  Jenna thought. “By the big white tree with the two branches in the trunk.”

  “Good. Pynt?”

  “It was the third turning, A-ma. And to the right.” In her excitement, Pynt had reverted to her baby name for her mother.

  Amalda smiled. “Fine! You both have good eyes. But that is not all that is necessary in the woods. Come.” She stood up and strode down the path.

  The girls followed after, skipping hand in hand.

  The second lesson came close upon the first, for not another turn further and Amalda held up her hand. Immediately the girls were silent, stopped in their tracks. Amalda’s chin went up and the girls imitated her. She touched her right ear with her hand and they listened intently. At first they heard nothing but the wind through the trees. Then there came a strange, loud creaking, followed by a high chittering.

  Amalda pointed to a fallen tree. They went over to it silently and stared.

  “What beast?” Amalda asked at last.

  Pynt shrugged.

  “Hare?” Jenna guessed.

  “Look, child. Listen. Your ears are as important as your eyes. Did you hear that squeaky scolding? It sounded like this.” Lifting her head, she made a high noise with her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  The girls laughed in delighted admiration and then Amalda showed them how to make the sound. They each tried and Pynt got it right first.

  “That is the sound squirrel makes,” said Amalda.

  “I know that!” said Jenna, surprised, for now that the name was spoken, she found that she had, indeed, known it.

  “Me, too!” said Pynt.

  “So we know squirrel watches us and scolds us for entering her domain.” Amalda nodded and looked around.

  The girls did the same.

  “Therefore we look for signs to tell us where squirrel especially likes to come, her favorite places.” She pointed again to the fallen tree. “Stumps are often such a spot.”

  They looked carefully at the stump. Around the base was a small midden heap of cone scales and nut shellings.

  “Squirrel eats here,” said Amalda. “She has left these signs for us but she does not know it. See now if you can find her little digging places, for she loves to bury things.”

  They scattered, as silently as two seven-year-olds can, and soon each came upon the small dead-end diggings. Jenna’s held a buried acorn but Pynt’s only the acorn caps. Amalda praised them for their finds. Afterward she showed them the slight scratches on the trees where the squirrels had chased one another up and over their favorite routes, leaving a few tiny patches of squirrel hair caught in the trunk. Deftly Amalda picked out the hair and tucked it into her leather pouch.

  “Sada and Lina will find a use for these with their weavers,” she said.

  The girls scrambled over several more trees, each coming up with handfuls of more hair. Jenna found a tree marked with larger scratches.

  “Squirrel?” she asked.

  Amalda patted her on the head. “Sharp-eyed girl,” she said, “but that is no squirrel.”

  Pynt shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. “Too big,” she said wisely. “Too deep.”

  Together Pynt and Jenna whispered, “Fox?” and Jenna added by herself, “Coon?”

  Amalda smiled. “Mountain cat,” she said.

  With that the lesson ended, for they all knew the danger, and though Amalda had seen no recent scat and doubted the cat was even in the area, she thought caution a fine moral to teach the girls, and led them back home.

  At the noon table, piled high with fresh, twisted loaves of bread and steaming mugs of squirrel stew, Amalda could not help but show the girls off.

  “Tell the sisters what you learned today,” she said.

  “That thimbleflowers can be good,” said Pynt.

  “Or bad,” Jenna added.

  “For your heart or …” Pynt stopped, unable to remember more.

  “Or your water,” Jenna said, and then wondered at the chuckle that ran around the table.

  “And squirrels sound like this.” Pynt made the sound and was rewarded with applause. She smiled, del
ighted, for she and Jenna had practiced the squirrel call all the way home.

  Jenna clapped, too, and then, when the noise had died down, she spoke out, eager to win her share of the praise. “We found the mark of a mountain cat.” When there was no applause, she added, “A mountain cat killed my first mother.”

  There was a sudden silence at the table. The priestess looked over at Amalda from her place at the head. “Who has told the child this … this tale?”

  “Mother, not I,” Amalda said quickly.

  “Nor I.”

  “Nor I.”

  Swiftly the denials ran around the table.

  The priestess stood, her voice deep with anger and authority. “This child belongs to all of us. There is no first mother. There is no second mother. Am I understood?” She waited for their complete silence, took it for approval, spun on her heel, and left.

  No one spoke for many minutes after, though the children continued to eat noisily, their spoons loud against the mugs.

  “What does all that mean?” asked Donya, peering in from the kitchen doorway.

  “It means age is wearing away her senses,” muttered Catrona, wiping wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. “She feels heat even on the coldest days. She looks into mirrors and sees her mother’s face.”

  Domina added, “She cannot get a child to choose her way, even after so many springtimes of trying. We will have to send to another Hame when she dies.”

  Jenna was the only child not eating, staring at her plate and feeling first hot, then cold on her cheeks. She had wanted attention when she said what she said, but not this kind. She scuffed her sandal against the chair leg. The slight sound, which only she heard, comforted her.

  “Hush!” said Amalda, her hand on Domina’s arm for emphasis.

  “She is right, Domina, Catrona,” said Kadreen in her flat, unsmiling way. She nodded her head toward the table where the gardeners sat, meaning—they all knew—that what was spoken here would find its way soon enough into the ears of the priestess herself. The workers of the field always served the one who blessed their crops; they were hers unquestioningly. Not that Kadreen cared. She took no sides in any disputes, just set the bones and stitched the wounds, but she was not above a warning now and again. “And you, Catrona, remember that when the villagers say There is no medicine to cure hatred, they are right. I have warned you about these passions. Just a month past and your stomach was bad again and you were abed with the bloody flux. Drink goat’s milk as I told you, instead of that rough grape swill, and practice your latani breathing for calm. I do not want you back soon.”