the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  The Giran brushed her hair out of her eyes, and she touched his face lightly with her fingertips. Yes? he asked with his eyes, because even now, even in a state where they were filled with the ecstasy of the Goddess and not quite sure where they were or what they were called, he would never forget to ask. Even those who had kissed her in the crowd had asked first, by a word, a lifted eyebrow, a gesture.

  Yes, she nodded. The Giran kissed her again and began to lead her toward a house marked with chains of fresh flowers and a bunch of green laurel leaves. It was dark inside, but through the open doorway she could see a few soft pallets and several couples wrapped in each other's arms, already sharing joy. Mindful of their privacy, she looked away.

  The Giran led her to a pallet in the far corner and began to make love to her. He was very slow, very sweet. Afterward she fell asleep, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone and it was dark, but the drums were still beating and the Snake Dance was still going on.

  She sat for a while in the doorway of the house, watching the dancers pass by. When the sun went down, the Society for Festivals distributed torches. The Great Snake was now a coiling ribbon of light that stretched from the river to the sea. Shadows flickered on the walls of the houses, moving up and down to the beat of the drums. It was as if another snake, a snake made of shadows, had joined the first one. From time to time me torchlight would illuminate the face of one of the dancers, and she would catch a brief glimpse of an ecstatic smile or a pair of eyes that looked at her without seeing her.

  The drums went on calling to her to join in, but she no longer had any desire to dance. She felt relaxed and at peace. Time passed. Finally, she got to her feet and began to make her way back to the temple. As she walked away from the Snake, the crowd thinned and she began to come upon whole families sleeping in the spaces between the houses. Young children curled in their mothers' arms; partners lay side by side; old people snored, their heads pillowed comfortably on small packs or rolled up cloaks. They slept under the stars as calmly as if they had been in their own homes.

  Marrah walked carefully, trying not to step on anyone. Soon she saw the low, white, bullhead-shaped entrance of the Western Temple. Behind it the sea shone dully in the moonlight like a piece of gray linen.

  Oh, bother! she thought. I've walked in the wrong direction. She picked her way back across the city toward the Eastern Temple, where babies were born and special guests were housed. The Temple of the East was a two-story stone structure, decorated with womb signs. Hedgehogs, toads, and fish swam across its whitewashed walls, and a large red triangle had been drawn above its main entrance. Although there were half a dozen similar temples in Itesh, this one was remarkable for several egg-shaped cells that had been hollowed out under it several generations ago by a pair of priestess queens the Girans always referred to as the Blessed Ones.

  The Blessed Ones had been born in the highland forests where the Goddess was worshiped in caves and the dead were laid to rest in egg-shaped tombs. According to the memory songs, the two old twins had been homesick for the mountains, so they decided after they retired to bring the mountains to Itesh. Chipping away at the rock until they were well into their seventies, they had made three sanctuaries where women could come to give birth and sick people could come to sleep and be healed. Each subsequent pair of queens had added another cell, until by now the temple sat over seven "eggs." Whether the eggs were supposed to be bird eggs or snake eggs had never been clear to Marrah, but perhaps it didn't matter since the Girans held both kinds sacred.

  A small guest room was attached to the right side of the temple for the use of pilgrims who didn't care to pass their nights underground. In front of it was a porch made of smooth stones, a bread oven, and two wooden benches. As Marrah drew closer, she realized someone was sitting on one of the benches. The man was tall with hair that looked white in the moonlight.

  "Stavan?" she whispered, not wanting to wake Arang, who lay asleep inside. He turned toward her, but said nothing. "What's wrong? Couldn't you sleep?"

  "No," he whispered in a husky voice that hardly sounded like his own. Sure that something was wrong, she hurried up to him, but instead of rising and embracing her as he usually did, he just sat there.

  She stood in front of him, not knowing what to do. She wanted to give him a hug but something about the rigid way he was holding his body told her he didn't want to be hugged.

  "What's wrong?" she asked again. Still he said nothing. "Speak to me, please. Tell me what's happened. Are you hurt? Are you sick?" A terrible thought struck her. "Has anything happened to Arang?"

  "Arang's fine," he said, in that same strange voice.

  Relieved that at least Arang was in no danger, she sat down beside him and took his hand in hers. It felt cold. He made a motion as if to draw it back and then reconsidered. They sat together in silence for a while as he looked away from her into the darkness. She did her best to hold her peace and not rush him. Finally he spoke.

  "Where were you?"

  "Where was I? Why, out dancing in the Snake, of course. Isn't that what you were doing?"

  "Yes, but I came back early."

  "You didn't enjoy it?"

  "No." He didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

  "Why not?" she persisted.

  He made an exasperated motion with his free hand. "Forgive me for saying so, but I don't like the customs of your people."

  She still had no idea what he meant, and she told him so. "Explain," she begged. "What customs do you mean? Is there one in particular?"

  He looked at her intently for a moment and shook his head. "You really don't know, do you?"

  "Stavan," she cried in frustration, "of course I don't know or I wouldn't be asking! Talk to me plainly, please. It's hard enough for us to understand each other in Shambah without your turning everything into riddles. What in the name of the blessed Goddess has you so upset?"

  "You can't imagine? You have no idea?" He raised her hand to his lips and began to kiss her fingers slowly as if reluctant to go on. There was an odd expression on his face, and his blue eyes looked almost white in the moonlight. "Let me make it simple. Did you sleep with another man tonight?"

  "Sleep with another man?' What do you mean?" The expression wasn't familiar to her and didn't make any sense. Clearly she'd come back to the temple to sleep, as Stavan could plainly see.

  "I mean, did you 'share joy' with someone?" He said the two words slowly as if they stuck in his throat.

  She was relieved to understand the question at last. "Why of course," she said. "Didn't you?"

  He dropped her hand. "No, I didn't." And then as she sat listening in amazement, he began to explain that this very simple, natural thing she had done had hurt him terribly. He had lost her in the crowd, he told her, and searched for her everywhere, not realizing at first that people who danced in the Snake Dance were meant to lose track of each other. Soon he had become aware that complete strangers were kissing and hugging each other, and he had seen couples going off together. Then he had known that the Snake Dance was like the dance he had seen her do in Hoza, and he'd become half crazy with jealousy, but still he couldn't find her. Women had embraced him, but he had pushed them away, and men had embraced him too, but he had turned away from all of them. He had walked along the Snake, back and forth, following its coils from one end of the city to the other, but there were too many people. He never once saw her, and after a while, after he saw the houses marked with flowers and bunches of green leaves and saw what was going on inside, he knew it was too late. So he had come back to the Eastern Temple to wait for her — angry at first, then coming to his senses and understanding that she hadn't meant to betray him, only the understanding hadn't made the pain any less.

  "I called out your name and paced back and forth like a fool, no doubt entertaining everyone who passed by. And after a time I realized there was only one thing I wanted." He took her face in his hands and looked at her, not with anger but so gently, and with so much love,
that she was seized with an irrational urge to cry even though she still didn't fully understand. "I realized I wanted you for my own. I realized I had to have you whatever it took. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  She wanted to say yes, but she was growing more confused by the minute. "You're saying you want me, and that's wonderful, but...but I don't understand why you're saying it. As far as I can see, you already have me — or rather we have each other. We're lovers; we're happy; we share joy. What more of each other could we have?"

  Stavan kissed her. "We could have a lifetime."

  "A what?" She looked at him blankly.

  He kissed her again. "I want to marry you. I've wanted to marry you for months only I don't know how. I don't even know if your people marry. I only know I can't buy you like I could a woman back in the Sea of Grass. You're not for sale. And even if I could buy you, I wouldn't want to. I won't be happy unless you become my wife of your own free will. Most of all, I want you to promise me that you'll never share joy with another man as long as you live."

  She only had the vaguest idea what he meant by the words "wife" and "marriage," and as for promising not to share joy with another man — when the Goddess gave two people to each other at a festival, they were expected to celebrate life together. She decided he must not have understood what the Snake Dance was about.

  "It's holy," she explained. "I thought you understood that. When I danced in the Snake, it wasn't like I was out looking for a new lover. I love you as much as you love me, but I'm a priestess and sharing joy with strangers is one of the ways my people pray. We don't do it often — once a year, perhaps — but we do it with reverence. When we dance and chant and make love, Her spirit flows into us and makes us One, not just with each other but with everything: the animals, the trees, the ancestors, the — "

  He interrupted her impatiently. "And when you do it, it hurts me beyond words."

  "But why? Why should such a beautiful custom hurt you?"

  "Because in my land women only have one man."

  "That may be true, but you've told me yourself often enough that your men have many women."

  "That's different."

  "How is it different? If a Hansi man can have all those wives and concubines, why can't a woman share joy with any man she wants?"

  "Women are different from men. They don't have the same feelings about sex."

  "Around here they do." She was beginning to get annoyed. Sometimes it seemed as if all she did was explain to him how her world was different from his.

  "Marrah, I'm asking you to do this for your own good. You'll be happier as my wife, I promise. Everyone knows a decent woman really doesn't want more than one lover, and I'd make you a good husband."

  "Stavan, open your eyes and take a look around. What do you think's going on out there?" She waved in the direction of the drums. "Do you think the men on this island are tricking the women into the love houses? In ancient times only the women could invite the men to follow them out of the Snake line. Then the priestess queens decided in their wisdom that everyone should have an equal say, and that's the way it's been ever since. If you want me to stop sharing joy with other men for the rest of my life, the very least you can do is offer to give up all other women."

  Stavan folded his arms across his chest and looked at her stubbornly. "That wouldn't be manly."

  They were getting nowhere. She shook her head, turned around, walked over to the fountain, and got herself a drink of water. When she came back, he was still sitting where she had left him. She spoke gently but firmly. "I know you're unhappy and I'm sorry to have done anything to make you suffer, but I can't become this thing you call a 'wife.' I'm much too young to take a permanent partner, and to be honest it doesn't seem fair that Hansi men should have so many women while the women are expected to share joy with only one man. Surely things can't really be that way; surely even 'wives' must lie with more than one man before they choose a 'husband.' Otherwise how would they know if they were getting the right partner? They'd have no one to compare him to."

  "No." Stavan pressed his lips together and shook his head. "If a woman sleeps with any man besides her husband or master, terrible things happen to her."

  "What sort of things?"

  He shuddered slightly. "I can't tell you. It's too awful. It has to do with honor." He rose to his feet. "Marrah, listen, I can't help suffering at the thought of some other man touching you. It makes me half crazy. Where I come from decent women just don't lie with strangers. You seem to want me to be delirious with joy every time you dance into some other man's arms, but I can promise you, it's not going to happen. My love for you runs too deep. I was brought up to see life a certain way. I've changed a lot since we met, but there are some strong feelings inside me that will never change. You don't seem to understand that if I weren't jealous, it would be a bad sign. It would mean I didn't love you. But I do love you. And when a man of my people loves a woman, he wants her all to himself."

  She was touched by his sincerity, but also annoyed. Why couldn't he see he was being unfair? What he wanted was impossible. How could she promise to give up one of the most sacred customs of her people? How could she abandon such an important part of her religion for any man, no matter how much she loved him? She tried to imagine herself living only for him, but it seemed like a selfish thing to do. You lived for your village and your community and for the blessed Earth under your feet.

  They talked for a long time after that, getting nowhere, not angry with each other but greatly confused. Finally she suggested they give up and try to go to sleep. "We're too tired," she said. "We're going in circles. What it comes down to is that I love you and you love me, and somehow we'll work this out." Reluctantly, he agreed. Taking each other's hands, they tiptoed into the guest room and settled down quietly beside Arang, who was snoring softly.

  They slept together that night like two children, curled in each other's arms, but even in sleep Stavan went on suffering. Sometimes he moved his lips as if continuing their conversation, and sometimes he moaned. Marrah — who really did love him as much as he loved her — felt his pain as if it were her own. "Hush, hush," she whispered. "Rest easy, darling." Once or twice he seemed to take comfort from the sound of her voice, but more often he didn't.

  She would have given anything to talk to Sabalah or Mother Asha about Stavan, but Sabalah was far away in Xori and Mother Asha in Gurasoak, so the next morning she went in search of Desta and Olva. She was embarrassed to bother them. After all, the queens were in charge of the entire festival and no doubt had better things to do than listen to a young woman complain about her lover, but they were the closest thing she had to a family, so, swallowing her pride, she spent the morning tracking them down — not an easy task since they had evidently thrown dignity aside and joined the Snake. In fact, it was not until the sun was high in the sky that she finally came across them sitting under a tree, taking their midday meal together as was their custom. They had their sandals off and were nursing their blisters, but the dancing had put them in a good mood and they gave Marrah a warm reception.

  "You're absolutely right," Desta said when Marrah finished explaining her problem. "You're much too young to take a permanent partner, and I'm sure if your mother were here she'd tell you the same thing."

  Olva agreed. "Fourteen isn't an age for making promises you might regret." She spread some crushed olives and cheese on a piece of bread and offered it to Marrah. Marrah accepted the food with a gesture of thanks. Somewhere in the distance, the drums of the Snake Dance were still beating.

  "Of course" — Desta smiled and bit into her own piece of bread — "you're a grown woman, so the decision is yours. We only advise."

  "Never command," Olva agreed.

  "But, dear mothers, tell me: have you ever heard of such a thing before? Stavan wants me to give up all other men forever, even at festival time."

  Desta and Olva exchange an amused glance. "I've heard of such things," Olva said, taking a sip of
wine. "I'm old enough to have heard of almost everything. But such extreme jealousy is rare."

  Desta nodded. "Rare indeed. As you know, partners often promise only to share joy with each other, but the promise doesn't include ceremonies like the Snake Dance. And then there are those who for some reason or other have given up sharing joy altogether, like the priestesses of Nar, who take the Goddess Earth for their only lover, or those men and women who have no desire. The Goddess, after all, makes many kinds of people. But what your lover is asking of you is unusual."

  "And has some distressing implications," Olva added. "If you take the kind of vow he wants you to take, you'll have to let him help you start your children. Why" — she looked slightly scandalized — "you'd have to have all of them by the same man, and perhaps he'd even insist on being their aita."

  "On the other hand," Desta observed, "you can't go on making him suffer. To hurt someone you share joy with is one of the worst things you can do, so you must make a choice. Either do as he asks and promise him you'll make love only with him until you're so old that sex no longer interests you, which" — she chuckled — "I think will happen when you're about ninety, because you look like the sort of woman who will be praising the Goddess with her body as long as she can, or..." She paused.

  "Or stop sharing joy with him altogether," Marrah said glumly.

  Desta and Olva both laughed. "My dear girl," Desta said, "who suggested any such thing? Olva and I can tell by looking at you that you could no more give up your odd, ugly lover than a butterfly can give up the flowers. No, don't stop sharing joy with him; compromise. Take a summer vow."

  "My thought exactly." Olva nodded. "A summer vow would be just the thing in this case." She passed Marrah another piece of bread and motioned for her to help herself to the wine. "One might say the Goddess in Her wisdom made summer vows for just such occasions."