Children of the Wolves

by Jessica Starre

  Michael turned to Teresa, who visibly trembled with excitement. “Teresa,” he said, “You have rendered the tribe faithful obedience from the day you came under our protection, disoriented and alone. You have woven garments and served our needs, trusting in the community even when you did not understand our ways. Today, we welcome you into fuller communion with your people. We anxiously await your calling but honor you today as one of the awakened.”

  The crowd grew quiet and still as Michael’s voice dropped, not a cough or snuffle to be heard.

  The rememberer drew a deep breath. He was the one who understood how their pastselves could serve the tribe now. He would help Teresa find her calling.

  “Teresa,” the rememberer said, turning to her with compassion on his face and in his eyes. “Now is the time to reckon with your pastself. Step forward and proclaim to all who are assembled here the truth of your pastself.”

  Teresa stepped forward, facing the villagers. Michael could see Teresa’s proud and smug smile beneath her hood.

  “Members of the Wudu-faesten tribe,” Teresa said confidently. “Elders of the people. It is with honor that I find myself awakened to my pastself.” She clasped her hands together over her heart and gazed out into the crowd. “My pastself — ” Here she paused, trying to gather herself together. “My pastself,” she said again, stronger, “was — a banker!”

  A moment of shocked silence greeted her announcement. A banker, the crowd murmured, unable to take it in. What did it mean?

  Michael was relieved when Jelena stood abruptly, faced Teresa, and began applauding before the muttering congregation could ruin Teresa’s day. Soon the whole assembly joined in and applauded Teresa’s awakening. She stood smiling at them all, letting the sound of their approval wash over her.

  A banker, Michael thought. He wondered what on earth Teresa’s calling would be. The makers had thought it all through, hadn’t they? A pang of concern — not panic, surely not panic — they had thought it all through, hadn’t they? It had all been carefully planned, hadn’t it? Not that he was one to criticize the makers … Even the storyteller said the makers had thought it all through. He said it every time he spun a tale of the founding of the seventy tribes of Irminsul.

  The rememberer would help Teresa find out what her calling was. A banker, though. What could a banker’s calling be?

  • • •

  The celebration got underway almost immediately — not that anyone thought it was particularly worthy of celebration to have added a banker to their ranks, since they didn’t understand her purpose, just that any excuse for a feast was a good one. Bertha and her helpers had transformed the dining hall while most of the villagers attended the meeting, the last blossoms of the wildflowers cut and strewn about the tables, a barrel of ale rolled into a corner and tapped, the cellar raided for jugs of last year’s best wine, the kitchens put to the task of providing a short-notice feast — not that Bertha would ever be taken by surprise, as she would tell you herself.

  Michael came into the kitchen with a basket of apples. Bertha cast an eye over them and sniffed.

  “I’m surprised that girl has the strength to stand up,” she said. “Nibbling on fruit and bread all day long, never a bit of meat.”

  “She wouldn’t mind a vegetable,” Michael said, dumping the apples into the sink for rinsing.

  “Vegetables,” Bertha said darkly.

  “You seem to have everything well in hand,” Michael said, glancing around the kitchen. A helper stirring something at the big black stove caught his eye. She flushed pink, turning away quickly.

  “I knew we’d be celebrating an awakening soon,” Bertha said. She didn’t add, but Michael knew, that she’d thought it would be Jelena’s. So had he. “I would have been shamed beyond endurance to celebrate an awakening with nothing more than day old bread and a pound of moldy cheese.”

  Michael let out a shout of laughter. “When has your kitchen ever had just day old bread and moldy cheese?”

  Bertha waved a wooden spoon at him. “Take heed, young man. This is as a kitchen should be. I’ll not be having this place fall into disarray when I’m gone.”

  “You won’t gone for a good number of years yet,” Michael said.

  Bertha just shook her head, turned, and said something to a helper, who scampered off on an errand.

  She had ordered a pig butchered, probably over Colin’s objections, and it was now out roasting in the courtyard. The stinging smoke from the fire wafted in through the open windows. Giving Bertha a quick hug, Michael abandoned the kitchen to take a turn along the outer fence. He saw that several of the helpers were outside, wetting down the roof so a stray spark from the roasting fire wouldn’t cause a catastrophe. They and the Sentries stood alert for the smallest unfamiliar sight or sound.

  The warlike tribes found it most fruitful to attack when celebrations were underway. Cunning, they were, slaughtering their enemies as they made merry. The Wudu-faesten had suffered such attacks in the past — fewer since the riders had begun training with the Trinitarians, their sometime allies to the south. But even so a current of tension underlay every celebration.

  The Wudu-faesten had no more wealth than the surrounding tribes. They just seemed richer. They didn’t fight others, they gave generously to those in need, they fed and sheltered the unawakened among them. The outsiders thought they must have Awakened someone who had led them to riches, but they couldn’t imagine whom — or what. The Umluans had awakened a miner who showed them how to strip gold from the mountains, but the other tribes had laughed when they saw the soft metal, too pliable for any practical use, too ugly for any decorative purpose. The Umluans had hanged the miner. Fortunately, they had awakened an executioner in time.

  It was a puzzle how the Wudu-faesten could be so well-fed and so secure, a puzzle that other tribes attempted to solve through swift, destructive raids, knowing the chance of reprisal was slight. The Wudu-faesten had never awakened a warrior.

  Chapter Six

  “Quite a performance at meeting today,” Jelena said to Michael, when he came in from checking the village security to join her at table.

  He smiled at her and said, “Ritual is important, you know. People need ritual.”

  Something stirred in her heart. Ritual. Ritual could teach you so much. But what? her practical mind asked. What could ritual teach you? And how would she know that? As long as she could remember, this wooded encampment had been her home, the central courtyard painstakingly cleared by those who had gone before her, felling trees even before the smith had been awakened and could forge their iron tools.

  Sometimes the tall green trees, oaks and birch, chestnuts and pines, towered over her so she couldn’t breathe. She thought maybe in her pastlife, she hadn’t been surrounded by trees.

  She smiled at Michael and whispered, “I’m going to talk to Amy,” then pushed a hand against his shoulder as he started to rise. “I’ll be fine. Stay, enjoy yourself.” Michael subsided and Charmaine grabbed Jelena’s place on the bench, engaging Michael’s attention.

  But Jelena didn’t seek out Amy’s company. Certainly her newfound facility for lying indicated a defect of character but it was hard to explain that she just wanted to be alone. She was sickened by the celebration of Teresa’s awakening and shamed by her own reaction. The bitterness lay on her stomach, nauseating and distasteful, making it hard to breathe, to think, to smile. All awakenings helped the tribe and she was a miserable, jealous, crawling wretch for thinking only of herself. And yet knowing that didn’t ease the bitterness of jealousy, just drove it deeper into her bones.

  With a sigh of relief, she left the hall, waving at the sentries as she crossed the courtyard to the stables near the western paddock. She’d never tried to ride before but today everyone was preoccupied and she could risk it. Teresa’s gossip about Danielle and Michael goaded her; if Michael
was impressed by a woman who could ride, perhaps Jelena could learn. But that, she told herself, wasn’t the only reason. She felt drawn to the whickering bay stallion that the trader had purchased from a neighboring tribe some weeks before his death. Oxen would have been more useful for clearing stumps and plowing the fields above the river, but the stallion was the best the trader could do.

  The Likura tribe with its cattle and dairy operations roamed far to the west over vast territories, driving their livestock before them — buffalo and ox and cattle, laboring animals with four legs. The Wudu-faesten kept pigs and sheep and goats, animals that could be sustained in their relatively small territory. Until the Likura returned and the Wudu-faesten had produced enough goods to trade with them, they would have to settle for the horse.

  The horsemaster kept the stallion penned separately from the riders’ horses, which lived in the eastern paddock just beyond the guardhouse. The riders’ horses were not used for pleasure or for labor; they were part of the people’s defense, painstakingly trained and not to be risked in other endeavors.

  In this near arena, the bay roamed. In the one beyond, the squatty pony that Rufus had purchased from the Umluan tribe stood chewing grass and giving her an evil stare.

  Jelena never understood why a tribe that lived in the protection of the trees would have a cavalry — not very mobile — but she guessed it was because the Sithan had them, and the Umluans, too — though the tiny Umluan ponies could maneuver through anything, including a forest of close-growing trees. The Umluan ponies had enormous haunches and Rufus described how they would rear up and take the sword thrust meant for their rider. The Umluan riders themselves carried wicked curving scimitars coated with deadly poison. Or so Rufus had said and she had no reason to doubt his word. Of course, the Wudu-faesten riders needed their horses whenever they ventured beyond the fence, such as when they saw the trader off on his adventures. A clutch at her heart when she remembered the trader would have no more adventures.

  Jelena approached the fence where the bay stallion pawed at the dirt. He took a snuffle of her and cantered to the other side of the arena. She didn’t mind the rejection; she needed a moment to stiffen her spine and steel her resolve. She went into the stable, found a saddle and bridle and hoisted them over her shoulder. The stable helper wasn’t about — presumably William was in the dining hall celebrating with everyone else — so no one tried to stop her.

  She unhooked the gate and walked into the arena, securing the latch behind her. At the other end of the arena, the bay eyed her. She whistled sharply and stood her ground as the bay charged at her. She hadn’t ridden since her newbirth, but this felt right. The bay slowed to a stop within inches of her feet. She reached a hand up, absently stroking the stallion’s neck, though not with affection. She wasn’t interested in the horse — the horse was a tool — she was interested in the ride.

  She steadied herself and tossed the saddle over the stallion’s back. He pranced a few feet away and she reached out to grab a handful of mane. The bay tossed his head and rolled his eyes at her. She ignored him and cinched the saddle tight. She expected him to blow air into his stomach and then once she mounted him, just when she least expected it, he’d expel the air, the saddle would slide loose, and Jelena would hit the ground hard. She smiled, picked up the bridle, put the bit between his teeth, then, catching him unawares, reached down and cinched the saddle another notch tighter.

  “Gotcha,” she said under her breath. The bay blew in her ear.

  Experimentally, she put her right foot in the nearest stirrup. So far, so good. She threw her left leg over, smacking the horse in the rump with her foot. “Oops,” she said, stroking the horse’s neck as he pawed the ground irritably. “Sorry about that.” She sat square in the saddle and took the reins.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jelena glanced up with a start. Michael stood on the other side of the arena fence, his face tight with anger, his hands clenched on the topmost rail. She could see his white knuckle tension from here.

  “I’m riding,” she said.

  “You don’t ride.” Michael leapt lightly over the fence and strode toward her, reaching for the reins. Without even realizing that she was guiding the horse, she encouraged it to dance out of his reach. Michael stopped. “You could get hurt,” he said. “You should have told me.”

  “Michael,” Jelena said, her voice soft, a little sad. “I don’t need a protector anymore.” With a fine dramatic flair, she wheeled the bay to the right and cantered off. Well, she could be as theatrical as he.

  Michael stood just inside the fence, watching after her, his arms crossed over his chest. She could almost see the unpleasant thoughts of wringing her neck filling his mind. She sat her saddle, upright but loose, like the riders. The horse veered toward the edge of the arena where overhanging branches brushed at Jelena. Smoothly, she twisted her upper body out of the way, the branches sliding by her. The horse, tiring of that game, loped out to the middle of the field, then began picking up speed. Jelena responded, leaning low over the stallion’s neck as he raced across the field, then stopped short and reared.

  When the horse threw its head back, Jelena’s thighs clamped hard against the bay’s body and she held her saddle, her hands loosely handling the reins. The horse bucked and reared again. Jelena held her place, her thighs burning and sweat streaking her brow. She began to laugh. She had done this before. She had done it. If she just let the memories come — surely the memories would come —

  The horse wheeled, then thundered down the field, coming to a halt just next to Michael. This time when he put his hand up to grab the bridle, the stallion did not dance away, merely stood sweat-slick and blowing hard.

  “Apparently you can ride.”

  “Yes,” Jelena said. The memories hadn’t come. “But it doesn’t mean anything to me. I don’t care about this horse, I don’t feel a connection with it. I wasn’t an equestrienne who won medals at the races.” She inhaled and frowned. “It’s meaningless. I can ride a horse.” She stared down at Michael, her jaw clamped tight against the frustration. She could do many things but none of them revealed who she was. Who she had been.

  Michael looked up into her eyes. “There are a couple of bottles of wine left and the celebration is still going strong. Join us.”

  The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “I’d be delighted,” she said after a while. “It’s just that I don’t know how to get off this damned horse.”

  • • •

  They rubbed the big bay down after Michael patiently showed Jelena the strategy used to dismount a horse. “You’re thinking too hard,” he coached. “It’s a long way down when you think too hard.”

  The teasing note was back in his voice, to Jelena’s relief. She didn’t want him to be angry and upset with her actions. He knew how much she wanted to find her place. Without thinking, she hooked her arm in his as they crossed the courtyard, and the years fell away, and it was as it had been in the beginning, full of hope and joy.

  The physician came out of the infirmary as they neared. Michael slowed his steps and Jelena released his arm. The physician’s face was lined with fatigue. He stopped when he saw them and waited for them to approach.

  “It is done,” he said simply.

  Michael nodded, all expression of happiness leaving his face. He turned toward the infirmary. Jelena knew he would sit with the little girl, Lissa, for a while, though she had already gone beyond self.

  At least this they couldn’t blame on the wolves. Then she chastised herself for such frivolous thinking at a moment like this.

  “I’ll inform her parents,” the physician said.

  “Thank you,” Michael said.

  Something in Jelena balked at accompanying him on his duty; sitting with the dead didn’t appeal to her at all.

  “Shall I tell Bertha and the others?” she offered.
“There will have to be another funeral.”

  Another funeral, so close on the heels of the trader’s. Sometimes it seemed as if the grief would always outweigh the joy.

  “That would be a help,” Michael said. He hesitated, and she knew it was because he didn’t like to leave her unprotected.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, squeezing his arm and turning to follow the physician into the main hall.

  She went directly to the kitchen where Bertha supervised the cleanup. The older woman glanced at Jelena’s face, gave a final instruction to a helper, then motioned Jelena over to a small table in the corner.

  “It is done?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Poor child,” Bertha said with a shake of her head. “That poor child and her parents. They thought the sun rose and set on that little girl.”

  A stab of pain in Jelena’s heart. She remembered the pendant Michael had given her, with an etching of a mother and child. Had she had a beautiful child, too, in her pastself, and had she believed the sun rose and set on that child?

  Then she remembered Lissa’s caretaker. “What about Kallie?”

  “She is gone,” Bertha said, a shadow crossing her face. Jelena sucked a breath in. Gone. She wouldn’t survive long outside the protection of the trees, beyond the fence.

  “Poor Kallie,” Jelena said. It all seemed so wasteful; an unawakened life, valued so little; a moment’s inattention, a single action that anyone might do — and then this.

  Bertha patted her shoulder and rose from the table. “A summer of mourning,” she said. “A season of grief. It turns and turns. That is the Way.”

  “At least Teresa has awakened,” Jelena said, though she felt no joy at the knowledge. It would be good for the people, though; it always was. Bertha gave her a shrewd look and a quick nod.