the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  "But what's a summer vow?" Marrah looked from one queen to the other.

  They appeared surprised. "You don't have them in the West Beyond the West?" Marrah shook her head. "How odd."

  "Well, we have them in Gira," Olva explained. "You see this young man of yours isn't the first to suffer jealousy when the drums of the Snake Festival start beating." She sighed. "Ah, young men, how sweet they are and how impractical."

  "Young women too," Desta insisted.

  "Yes," Olva acknowledged, "young women too, certainly. But in my experience, it's the young men who are the dreamers; they think they'll love the same woman forever. Sometimes, I have to admit, they're right. But more often both partners develop new interests, which is why it's customary for people to wait until they're more — how shall I put it?" She looked at Marrah thoughtfully, clearly not wanting to give offense. "Until they're old enough to know their own preferences. Meanwhile" — she smiled — "there are summer vows to take away the sufferings of youth. When two people take a summer vow they both promise — "

  "To share joy with each other, and only each other, for an entire summer." Desta laughed. She held up her index finger and wagged it in front of Marrah's nose. "No sharing joy with strangers at ceremonies, no casual trips into the fields with anyone else when the moon's full and you're feeling bored, and absolutely no lying of any kind; vow to terminate at the first rains."

  "When you can take a winter vow if you're still in the mood." Olva chuckled.

  Marrah wasn't sure how Stavan would react to the idea of a summer vow, but she thanked the queens for the suggestion. They nodded and smiled as if everything had been solved, which Marrah hoped was the case.

  "Now finish your wine," Olva said, "and run tell your rash young lover the good news: that you'll be his and only his until the rains fall. Perhaps by then he'll have come to his senses. And let me give you one more piece of advice, just between the three of us: you may find as you get older that you don't want a partner. I don't have one. Oh, I have lovers, of course, but my children and my family are enough for me; they fill my heart. You see, the Goddess made some people to be paired and some people not to be paired, and the secret of happiness is to figure out which kind of person you are."

  "Not to mention that there are other things in life," Desta said. "Tomorrow, for example, we take the ashes of the old Yasha to the Sea and call up the dolphins to receive her soul. It's a beautiful ceremony." She put the tips of her fingers together and bowed formally to Marrah."And we would be honored if Sabalah's daughter would be part of it."

  The invitation took Marrah completely by surprise. She hadn't expected to be asked. Putting her own fingertips together, she thanked the queens. It was an oddly formal moment, coming at the end of so much motherly advice, but strangely satisfying. Olva and Desta had sympathized with her dilemma, but they hadn't let her forget that she was also a priestess from a long line of priestesses. She might love Stavan, but no matter how much happiness or pain that love brought her, she was still Sabalah's daughter, and, as Desta had said, there were other things in life.

  As she had suspected, Stavan didn't particularly like the idea of a summer vow, but he was relieved that she was willing to make any kind of promise at all, especially since the drums of the Snake Dance were still beating. "I want you all to myself," he told her, "and if that means I have to promise not to have other women — well, I've been thinking it over, and I've decided it's worth sacrificing some of my pride so we can have peace. It's not the kind of bargain any warrior in his right mind would make with a woman, and I'd be the laughingstock of my whole tribe if they found out, but I have to face the fact that things are different here and you're no ordinary woman, so, by Han, I'll do it! By winter I'll have persuaded you to take a longer vow, and sooner or later..." He didn't finish the sentence, but she could see he was still hoping she would take him as that thing he called a "husband." Well, let him hope. How did she know what she would feel by the time the rains came? They could be in Shara by then, and everything might be different.

  That evening the two of them went into one of the small egg-shaped caves beneath the Eastern Temple and took their summer vow in front of a small statue of Hessa, the little Snake Goddess.

  "This is our wedding day," Stavan said. "Back in the Sea of Grass all our relatives would be here, and we'd be having a great feast. You'd be wearing a white shawl and covering your face like a modest young woman" — he laughed and kissed her — "and I'd ride up on a fine stallion and carry you off while you screamed and scratched — or, rather, pretended to. Afterward the women would dance and the men would drink until dawn while we made love in a special white tent decorated with my father's clan signs."

  As usual, when he spoke of the ways of his people, Marrah was puzzled. "What would be the point of pretending to steal me?" she said. "It sounds unpleasant and certainly unnecessary, and that long shawl would get in the way. I'd rather take vows as my people always take them, alone with only the Goddess to hear us."

  Stavan couldn't explain why his people did what they did. Kissing her formally on the forehead, he took off one of Achan's gold bracelets and slipped it on her arm. "We'll do whatever makes you happy," he promised. And putting his hand on Hessa's round, coiled belly, he swore to love Marrah all summer, first in Hansi and then again in Shambah so she'd understand.

  Things went well after that, and they were happy again for a long time.

  The next morning, on the fifth and last day of the festival, Marrah joined the priestesses of Gira in a ceremony so strange and beautiful that no memory song had ever done it justice. The ceremony, which was known as the Calling of the Dolphins, took place shortly before sunrise when the sky was streaked with red and pink and the sea was as calm and flat as the palm of a hand.

  Earlier, when it was still dark, Desta had walked from the Eastern Temple carrying the ashes of the dead Yasha in a small clay bowl shaped like an egg. As Queen of the East, Desta was responsible for all rites of birth and life, and as she passed through the city, followed by Marrah and several hundred white-robed priestesses, she sang a song she had composed herself. The song told the story of the dead Yasha's life. Like all funeral songs it wasn't entirely reverent, but the old Yasha and her dead twin had served the island people well in their time, and the history of their exploits was lovingly told, accompanied by flutes and harps and the high voices of a special group of young children who joined Desta in the chorus.

  When Desta reached the Western Temple, she handed the egg full of ashes to Olva, who stood waiting for her by the edge of the sea. As Queen of the West, Olva was responsible for everything having to do with death and regeneration. Taking the bowl from her sister, she knelt and kissed the earth, and as her lips touched the sand, six priestesses came forward with their arms full of white flowers and made a path of petals that led down to the water.

  Marrah was one of those priestesses, and as she bent down, scattering the fragrant blossoms on the beach, she felt a thrill of anticipation. Was it her imagination, or was the sea already beginning to ripple? Tossing the last of the flowers, she stood and looked at the water, but it was still glassy. Almost imperceptible waves lapped at the shore; the only sign of movement was a single gull flying toward the West, its white underbelly shining dimly in the early morning light.

  Olva rose and handed the egg to the oldest woman on the island, an ancient village mother named Shadaz who stood supported on either side by her two eldest sons. Shadaz, in turn, handed Olva a ram's horn. Putting the horn to her lips, Olva blew a single powerful blast that echoed off the houses of Itesh. At the sound of the horn, the six priestesses threw off their robes and stood naked facing the sea. Linking hands, they walked into the water until the waves lapped at their breasts.

  Up to that point, the ceremony had been interesting but not that different from dozens of others Marrah had witnessed. But what happened next was so amazing that later she could hardly believe she hadn't dreamed it. Again Olva blew on the horn,
and at the sound of the second blast the water began to churn. A single smooth black fin appeared, cutting through the waves, then another. White and black bodies leapt in the air, splashing the priestesses and falling back with a smack. The dolphins of Gira had come.

  There must have been at least twenty of them, perhaps more. Fed every day with the best fish the temples of Itesh had to offer, and never hunted or harmed in any way, they had no fear. Circling the naked women, they nudged at them with their long beaks and bumped up against them playfully.

  The priestesses called to the dolphins, making high, whistling noises that Marrah tried to imitate. One by one, they caught the beasts, climbed on their backs, and rode them through the churning water. Marrah too caught and rode a dolphin, not because she was skilled — she was as clumsy as anyone could have been — but because the animal was patient with her, treating her, she decided later, as if she were a baby who hadn't quite learned to swim. The dolphin's body was slick and she slipped off several times, but each time the dolphin waited for her, circling and nudging her until she climbed back up.

  Back on shore, Olva had taken off her own robes and walked into the sea to scatter the old Yasha's ashes, but Marrah hardly noticed that part of the ceremony. She was too thrilled by the rolling ride, the wind in her wet hair, the slim black and white dolphin, strong and lovely under her, bearing her through the water.

  A few days later, after saying goodbye to Rhom's cousins, who were returning to Lezentka, Marrah, Stavan, and Arang left Gira on a boat full of obsidian headed east toward the mainland. The tide wasn't with them until well into the afternoon, so it was a late departure. That morning, while Marrah was sitting on one of the benches in front of the temple waiting impatiently for Arang and Stavan to come back with dried dates and other provisions, Desta and Olva appeared carrying a bundle wrapped in white linen. Inside the bundle was a small, beautifully decorated cup that showed a circle of dancing priestesses surrounded by a ring of dolphins. The priestesses were swinging their long black hair just like the priestesses in Sabalah's song, and the dolphins were leaping and rolling through the waves that lapped over the edge.

  "It's a farewell gift," Olva said. "Something for you to remember Gira by." And kissing her on both cheeks, the queens gave her their blessing and wished her a safe journey to Shara.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Travel fast, my darling children,

  travel safely on to Shara.

  Sabalah's love for you is sweeter

  than all the honey cakes of Kaza,

  more beautiful than the breast-vases of Hita,

  more powerful than the smoking mountain

  that towers over the Bay of Omu,

  draped with clouds and filled with fire.

  SABALAH'S SONG

  VERSES 23-24

  East from Gira

  Once again the wind filled the sail of their raspa, blowing them east across the morning-glory — colored sea, and once again a new city appeared on the horizon, but Marrah never got to know it the way she knew Itesh. Like so many of the cities to come, the first city of the mainland was a place she passed through so quickly that only a vague impression remained behind: a wide bay, a smoking mountain, a cluster of stone houses, temples filled with yellow jasmine, hospitable people, swift passage overland. From the moment they left Gira, they were constantly on the move: crossing from Omu to Sula, from Sula to Eringah, from Eringah to Chutku, where the streams flowed east into the land of the Hita and joined the River of Smoke, which ran like a long watery snake through the heart of the world.

  Thanks to Marrah and Arang's pilgrim necklaces, they were rarely delayed for more than a few days. One look at the shell triangles, and strangers placed food before them and offered them warm beds and whatever help they needed. Whole villages sometimes gathered around asking to be blessed, and it was not unusual for Marrah and Arang to wake up in the morning to find their hosts had quietly placed offerings of fruit and flowers at their feet.

  If Marrah had any home at all that summer, it was the cloak she drew around herself at night to keep off the chill and Stavan's shoulder where she laid her head. It was exhilarating to move so quickly and see so many new things, but it was confusing too, and sometimes when she woke in still another strange place she experienced the odd sensation of not knowing exactly why she was there. Then she would touch the little yellow stone that hung from the thong around her neck and remember she was Marrah of Xori, Sabalah's daughter, taking a warning to her mother's people. Reassured, she would get up, put on her dress and sandals, and go to look for Stavan, who was often up before her. The two of them would have a few minutes together to discuss the weather or the prospects for breakfast before they woke Arang, and then the day would begin. Packing their carrying baskets, they would eat whatever was offered, thank their hosts, join the traders who were guiding them, and set off, not stopping again until midday.

  Yet although they moved swiftly, Marrah took time to savor the world. She was fourteen now, and she had traveled long enough to know she might never come exactly the same way again, so as she walked down a trail or floated past a village, she kept her eyes open, trying to learn as much as she could. If the guides happened to know how the local plants were used, she would walk beside them and ask them to share their knowledge. "In the land of the Shore People we use this for broken bones," she would say, holding up a bit of comfrey. "What do you use it for? We sometimes make a soup out of nettles. Do you?"

  Sometimes they could tell her what she wanted to know and sometimes they couldn't, but one question always led to another, and soon they would be discussing other things: what customs surrounded the birth of twins, how hot a mineral spring had to be to ease aching bones, what clay was best for making cooking pots, how salt could be extracted from seawater. Although her days were long and tiring, they were never dull. Later, she put those conversations to good use, and in the end they proved to be the best education a priestess could possibly have had.

  But there was more to that summer than just putting one foot before the other. In the years to come, Marrah never forgot the mountain villages of Chutku, where naked women wrestled each other in honor of the Bear Goddess, or the crescent-shaped reservoirs of Sula shining like a heap of new moons strewn carelessly across the lowlands. The world was full of unexpected beauty and exotic customs, and she rarely traveled more than a few days without seeing something memorable.

  Three things stood out from all the rest. The first was a copper mine in a place called Shifaz. They came on the mine at midday when the sun was high overhead and the rocks burned under the soles of their sandals. Half a dozen men and women were standing in a long trench, digging the raw ore out of the earth with stone mallets and deer-antler picks. As they worked they sang, beating out the rhythm with their tools. Their songs were haunting, like the howling of wolves or the crying of birds, and when Marrah asked to have one translated into Old Language, she discovered it was an apology to the Goddess Earth, much like the sort of apology her own people offered to animals. "Thank you, dear Mother, for giving us your bones," the miners were singing. "Forgive us for taking the copper that grew in Your womb."

  Smoke swirled around them as they sang, and the fires they had built to crack the rocks smoldered and leapt. Picking up clay jars half the size of a man, they splashed ice-cold water on the hot rocks, releasing the green and blue lumps of ore, and when Marrah and Arang left, they gave them each a small copper bead no bigger than a raindrop.

  The second memorable sight was the pottery of Hita. Hita was a vast region that included everything from remote mountain villages to several large cities that lay on the River of Smoke. Although its people all spoke the same language, they lived in many ways, following many different customs. The one thing they shared besides a common tongue was a genius for taking the red and brown clays of their native soil and turning them into ceramics so beautiful that Marrah could only look at them in awe, amazed that mere human beings could create such loveliness. Every templ
e, no matter how small, had a pottery workshop, and the Hitan priestesses knew special recipes for mixing paints and glazes.

  The pottery of the Hitans came in every possible shape. There were frogs, snakes, dogs, rams; ceremonial cups, libation bowls; masks as light as straw; platters too heavy to lift. But the greatest pieces of Hitan pottery were the temples of Takash. Takash, which lay on the River of Smoke, had been a wealthy trading center for generations. It had twenty-three temples, and each one was a single piece of glazed clay four times as tall as a man and big enough to hold a dozen people. Most of the gigantic sculptured temples were shaped like the Bird Goddess, with a beaked mouth, breasts, and a womb door, but there were mother bears larger than any bear that had ever lived, great snakes that spiraled toward the sky, and even a water temple whose walls flowed forever in green and blue glaze like the River of Smoke that flowed at its feet.

  Marrah learned that the clay temples of Takash were fired from within by a great blaze that turned the wet bricks solid. Often in later years she dreamed of those temples rising above the city like guardian spirits. When she became a master potter, she would take a ball of raw clay in her hands and sit for a moment praying for inspiration, and the temples would come into her mind's eye, gleaming and beautiful. Then the clay would take on a life of its own, and she would only need to guide the pot or cup as it took shape.

  Compared to the temples of Takash, the third great sight of the journey seemed like nothing at all when she first laid eyes on it. It didn't have the drama of the copper mines of Shifaz or the breathtaking beauty of a Bird Goddess big enough to hold a dozen people; it was only a piece of cured leather about two hands wide and three hands long, frayed at one corner and thin with use. An old priestess showed it to her one afternoon in a small village on the River of Smoke, hurrying out to the landing at the sight of their dugout to hail them over to shore. The leather was rolled in a piece of fleece like a sleeping baby, and the old priestess unrolled it reverently. There were some marks on it: triangles, comblike shapes, dots, water lines, and so forth, not set in any particular pattern but scattered randomly — or so Marrah thought.