by Mary Mackey
He knew as he spoke that he risked losing her love, but he told her anyway, wanting to hold nothing back, and when he was done, he took her gently in his arms and asked her to forgive him for having been born among such a people, because he could see now that the ways of the Hansi were brutal and that there was a better way for a man to live his life than wasting it on war and cattle stealing. He was afraid she might condemn him and draw away from him, but instead she threw her arms around his neck and told him that there was nothing to forgive, that he wasn't to blame, that no one chose the place of his birth, and that she loved him, not just because his kisses were the best kisses a man ever offered a woman, but because he had the brains to see that having been born a warrior didn't mean you had to be one forever.
But he didn't risk that kind of revelation too often. Mostly he told her things that made her smile: like how silly a newborn colt looked when it first tried to stand up on its long, spindly legs, or how in the land of the Hansi a girl wasn't considered a woman until a man had put his penis inside her. Once he even tried to explain to her that by the standards of his people she was still a virgin, but the idea that the two of them could make love so wildly without it counting sent her into such a fit of giggles she had to sit up to get her breath. She never let him forget that one, and sometimes when she was doing the most delightful things to him with her hands and mouth, she would whisper, "So I'm a virgin, am I?" and proceed to display a skill that made him utter helpless cries of pleasure that he was afraid might be heard in the neighboring houses.
Fortunately for his pride, everyone was too polite to mention the sighs and groans that came from the little house at the end of the village, but the next morning the women would smile at him when he walked past, and the men would tell him how pleased they were that he was enjoying his stay in Lezentka, and sometimes, if Rhom were in a particularly good mood, he would take out his flute and play a love song or two or appear with a dish of steamed clams, claiming that Stavan was looking tired and everyone knew clams gave a man energy.
Even Arang seemed to approve of the fact that Stavan had become his sister's lover. When it became clear what was going on, he insisted on moving out so the two of them could have more privacy. "It's getting too cold for you to spend the night on the beach," he announced one morning, and, packing up his things, he kissed Marrah, hugged Stavan, and walked across the square to Shema's house. If he was at all jealous of the attention Marrah was giving to Stavan, he never showed it: on the contrary, he seemed relieved.
"I was always afraid you were going to decide to go back to your own people," he told Stavan one afternoon as they sat on the river-bank fishing. "But now that you're my aita and sharing joy with Marrah, I think you'll stay."
Stavan assured him he had no plans to leave.
"Good." Arang nodded. He pulled his line out of the water and saw his hook was bare. "Pass the bait, will you?"
Stavan passed him the bait and managed somehow not to laugh. The fact that a boy could chatter about who his sister was in bed with was another example of how differently these Goddess people treated everything that had to do with sex. Back in the Sea of Grass, Arang would have been sharpening his dagger, longing for the day when he was old enough to plunge it into the heart of the bastard who had slept with his sister without paying a proper bride price for her, but all this boy wanted to do with his knife was sharpen hooks and clean fish.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes waiting for the fish to bite, but the fish of the Orugali must have been particularly well fed that afternoon because, although they could see several large shadows lazily floating beneath the clear water, neither of the small bladders they were using as bobbers went under. After a while, Arang spoke again.
"You know, I've never understood why you didn't go home before you fell in love with Marrah. Nobody was keeping you. Even the little kids used to whisper that you looked like you missed your mama pretty bad. You can hunt better than anyone, and no one knows more about the forest than you do, so why didn't you just go back to your own people as soon as you could walk?"
Stavan explained the promise he had made. "Since your sister saved my life," he concluded, "I owe her mine. She became my chief, so to speak, so I had to stay with her even when I didn't want to."
Arang looked at him blankly. Obviously he didn't understand, although as far as Stavan could see it was plain enough.
"It was a matter of honor."
"What's honor?"
Stavan sighed and started from scratch. "Honor is what gives a man's life meaning. It's more than loyalty, more even than fidelity, it's..." He stopped. There was no way he could put the Hansi concept of honor into words. Honor wasn't something that had to be explained; if you were born into the tribe, you breathed it in like air. But Arang hadn't been born a Hansi. He decided to make it as simple as possible. "It's this way: before I knew Marrah saved my life, I was planning to leave as soon as I could. In those days I was bound by honor to go back to my father and let him know how Achan had died. My father was my chief." Now he was going to have to explain the words "father" and "chief."
Taking a deep breath, he pressed on. "He was sort of the Great Aita of all aitas, and I owed him everything: obethence, loyalty, even my life if he wanted it."
"Why?"
The question took Stavan by surprise. "Why? Because he's my father, that's why. And not only that, he's the Great Chief of all the Hansi. So I have to respect him and do as he commands."
"But wouldn't you do what your aita wanted you to do just because you loved him? That's how I feel about you and Mama; and Marrah too — most of the time, anyway. I love all of you and I know you're trying to do what's best for me, so when you tell me not to eat green apples or not to — "
"We're getting off the track," Stavan interrupted. "Love has nothing to do with it. You can be bound by honor to obey someone you hate; it makes no difference. As for your mama and Marrah, women's honor and men's honor isn't the same thing at all. A woman's honor is her chastity." He saw Arang looking at him blankly again. "But never mind about that," he said quickly, realizing that he was on the verge of having to explain what a virgin was. "Let's stick to the subject." He held up one finger. "Now, as I was saying: before I knew Marrah saved my life, my duty to my father came first. But after I learned that she pulled me out of the sea and breathed life into me" — he held up a second finger — "my duty was to her. But that doesn't mean I'm released from my duty to my father. If I ever save her life" — he lowered the second finger — "my duty to Marrah will be over, and I'll have to go back to the Sea of Grass and tell my father how Achan died."
Arang's face fell. "I don't understand." His voice was almost a whisper, and the corners of his mouth trembled. "I thought you just said you weren't going to leave us. I thought you loved us. I thought — "
"Arang," Stavan said impatiently, "haven't you understood a word I've said? I don't want to leave you and your sister, but if. . ." Two tears started down Arang's cheeks. "Oh, never mind," Stavan cried. "I'm not going anywhere. Is that simple enough for you?"
Arang brightened. "Then you'll go all the way to Shara with us?"
"To Gira, to Shara, to hell itself if necessary. Now stop crying and concentrate on those fish, or we'll have to go back to the village empty-handed." He paused. "And don't go telling your sister what I said about women's honor being different from men's. She might not like it."
Arang wiped the tears out of his eyes. "Why not? Are you afraid, if I tell her, she might toss you out of her bed?"
Stavan was shocked. "Of course not. What are you talking about? Marrah's the sweetest-tempered woman on the face of the earth, and whether I'm in her bed or out of it is none of your business."
There was another short silence while Arang thought this over. At last he looked up with a face so innocent that Stavan was surprised the birds didn't fly out of the trees and perch on his head. "I was just wondering," he said sweetly.
"Wondering what?"
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"Wondering what 'chastity' is."
Stavan had enough sense to know when he was being blackmailed. For a moment he was annoyed and then amused. So Arang's silence was going to have a price. Well, what boy his age wouldn't want to know as much about sex as he could wheedle an adult into telling him? Anchoring his fishing line around a rock, he sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and began to explain, father to son — or, rather, aita to nephew — exactly what men and women did in bed together. He was a little awkward, not being used to discussing the subject with children, and some of the words struck him as crude, but he knew no others, so he blundered ahead as best he could, and by the time he finished, he was satisfied Arang understood. "So," he concluded. "Any questions?"
Arang looked thoughtful. "It doesn't sound like much fun." Stavan started to explain gravely that when a boy grew into a man his ideas about fun changed, but Arang interrupted him. "I don't mean that sharing joy isn't fun, Stavan. Everyone knows it's one of the best things there is. What I mean is that your Hansi way of doing it doesn't sound like fun. Are you all really so bad at it?"
Stavan laughed so hard he nearly choked. "Yes," he gasped, "yes. We Hansi evidently have a reputation for being the worst lovers on the face of the earth, as a man of your vast experience can see at a glance. Tell me, in your — what is it now? — nine long years have you ever heard of a people more in need of instruction?"
Arang didn't get the joke. "No," he said, "but don't worry. I'm sure Marrah can teach you how to do it so it's fun."
Stavan could have told him that Marrah had already taught him enough to keep a man happy for the rest of his life, but that also was none of his business. Picking up his line, he cast it out into the water so it fell into a soft loop and floated with the current. "Be quiet, you little brat," he growled, "you're scaring off the fish." It might have sounded harsh except he grinned as he said it.
Time passed, and winter turned to spring. The boat they had been waiting for finally came when the hard rains had been over for several weeks. It was a green, fresh season: lambs and newborn kids romped in lush meadows that would quickly dry to gold under the summer sun, and the houses of Lezentka were covered with roses and honeysuckle whose heady scent perfumed the entire village.
Marrah was sitting in the pottery workshop of the temple trying to shape some damp red clay into a cooking pot when she heard the children crying, "A sail! A sail!" The potmaking had been going a bit better than usual, but she was still awkward, as apt to wreck a pot as make a whole one, and at the sound of the excited voices her fingers trembled, spoiling the rim she had been so patiently shaping. With a cry of frustration, she grabbed the lopsided pot, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it into the corner with the rest of her rejects. Running out of the temple with damp earth smeared up to her elbows, she shaded her eyes with one hand, looked out to sea, and saw a faint scrap of white on the horizon, like a bit of the wing of a diving tern.
The white square grew bigger by the minute. Now the whole village was hurrying down to the beach, and Marrah with them. Stavan was there too, come from the fields, where he had been helping Rhom nurse a sick calf, and Arang, with half a dozen other children, all of them so excited it was all the adults could do to keep them from jumping into the water.
"I see the flag!" one of little ones cried.
"I see the carved figure on the bow!"
"It's the Gannet!"
"No, it's not. It's the Gray Goose!"
But it was the Gannet, crewed by Rhom's irresponsible cousins, plowing through the calm waters toward Lezentka with its blue-and-white flag fluttering in the spring breeze. The wind that filled its sails had brought it from Gira in record time, and as the five men and women who crewed it leaped into the surf and helped the villagers drag the boat onto logs and roll it beyond the reach of the waves, they called out bits of news. "Everyone well. No cargo lost. The Goddess gave us fair passage."
"We've brought back a load of honey-colored flint...."
"And some things called pomegranates...."
"Obsidian and olives."
"Hip belts and a new incense burner for the temple."
"The last old Yasha died this winter, and they're going to pick the new twin baby priestesses at the Snake Festival."
"It's going to be the greatest Snake Festival in living memory. The rumor is that this time the Queen of the West and her women are actually going to share joy with the dolphins so a pair of twin dolphin babies can be born to guide them through the hard times that the old Yasha predicted before she died. Now that's a sight I'd give a lot to see."
The trader who shouted out the news about the dolphins was a dark, wiry man who seemed to be in charge. Evidently that was the case because, as Marrah watched, Rhom walked over to him and began to upbraid him for sailing from Lezentka last summer without waiting for the jadeite axes and feather capes to arrive.
"But my dear cousin," the trader protested, "if we'd waited any longer for you three land snails to crawl out of the forest, we'd have been caught in the winter storms just like the divining shells predicted, and where would the five of us be now? Gone home to the Mother with our mouths full of seawater and the Garnet lost besides."
Rhom's other four cousins — two women and two men — joined in the argument, and although it was loud as usual, no one seemed to take it very seriously. There were some apologies, some hugs and backslapping, and some promises made that clearly no one intended to keep. Several clay jars of Giran wine were taken out of the hold, unsealed, and passed around, and by the time Rhom had a few swigs he was in a forgiving mood.
That night there was a welcome-home feast for the crew of the Gannet. Two weeks later, when her hull had been scraped and mended and her sails repaired, the village council gave its blessing, and the boat left for Gira, carrying Marrah, Arang, and Stavan.
Although she had expected to be sorry to part with Shema, Zastra, and Rhom, Marrah was surprised to discover she missed Lezentka itself. The village had become a kind of home over the past months, and it was odd at first — and even a little frightening — to be out of sight of land, but the weather was fair, the winds blew steadily, and no one got seasick. Before the voyage was over, even Stavan relaxed. By the third day, he was gambling with Rhom's cousins, losing imaginary fortunes in rare shells and phantom obsidian — for neither winners nor losers ever paid up, and when he tried to hand over one of his earrings, the Lezentkans laughed and pushed it away.
"In my land," he told Marrah, "we take our debts seriously," but he didn't seem displeased to keep his earring. Soon he got the knack of throwing the shell counters into just the right holes on the wooden gaming board, and by the end of the voyage he had won so often and so consistently the traders told him he could beat the best players in Eringah if he ever made it that far east. They expected him to be impressed when they mentioned a land so distant — one many weeks beyond Gira — but Stavan surprised them by knowing all about Eringah.
Marrah found all this highly entertaining. Eringah was in Sabalah's song, and at night when she and Arang sat in the bow of the Gannet softly singing it to each other, she felt as if they were flying toward the east guided by Sabalah. Sometimes she even imagined she could hear a third voice joining in, and when she closed her eyes she could feel her mother sitting beside her, invisible in the cool, windy darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
When the Queen of the West
calls to her dolphins
the sea trembles,
white foam climbs her thighs.
Gira, island of soft nights.
Gira, island of love.
Gira, where the maidens dance
swinging their long black hair.
SABALAH'S SONG
VERSES 19-20
Gira
Itesh was the largest city on Gira and certainly the largest Marrah had ever seen. From the sea it had looked like a handful of white stones tossed carelessly along the fertile banks of the Usha River. Its hundred or so houses
were built of the same gray-white granite that cropped out of the hills and made the dry upland forests fit only for hunting and obsidian mining, but here the starkness of the stone had been transformed into cheerful urban chaos. There were no streets as such: the one-story houses touched each other, turned their backs on each other, or faced each other at the whim of the mother families who inhabited them, some seeking a view of the sea, others looking toward the river and the fertile plain, where the olive trees were putting on new leaves and green shoots were sprouting in the vineyards.
Located in the Gulf of Hessa at the northwestern tip of the island, Itesh had no defenses: unwalled and vulnerable from both land and sea, it offered its famous temples and sacred caves to any traveler who needed refuge, healing, religious comfort, or — in the case of the Snake Festival — five days of wild celebration. You could always be sure of a warm welcome in Itesh, especially if you came when the spring moon was ripe and Hessa, the little steel-blue grass snake found only on the island, was shedding her old skin for a new one.
On the first day of the festival in the year we would have called 4371 B.C.E., the city was so crowded with pilgrims, foreign visitors, and mother clans from the surrounding villages that it seemed about to burst apart like a pod of dry chick-peas. There was only one spot of order: a sturdy rectangular wooden platform that towered over the crowd like an oversized table. The platform had a ramp sloping gently up one side, making it easy to reach the top, and for fifty-one weeks of the year it was the commercial and social center of the city. Depending on the occasion, it could be a stage, an open-air temple, a public forum, a court of justice, a threshing floor, a market for the trade goods that came into the port, or just a pleasant place to stand around gossiping; but during the week of the Snake Festival, poles were put into special holes around the edges, a large blue-and-white linen sunshade was raised on woven cords, and the platform was transformed into a reviewing stand.
