the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  In many ways, the animals were a beautiful sight; if Marrah hadn't been so worried, she would probably have enjoyed seeing so many different kinds peacefully grazing together. No two were the same color: the horses alone came in browns and chestnuts, tans and grays, blacks and whites and everything in between; the cattle were as different as a pile of unglazed potsherds; and the fat long-haired sheep looked wonderfully comic as they waddled from place to place like big overstuffed pillows. But she had no heart for either humor or beauty. The Hansi tents were coming closer by the minute; just ahead, love and trouble were waiting for her, so mixed together she felt only confusion and fear every time she looked up and saw the camp.

  Long ago, when she was a little girl, Sabalah had warned her to be careful what she wished for or the Goddess might give it to her. At the time, that advice had seemed like another piece of grown-up nonsense, but now she understood what her mother had meant. For over two years she'd been wishing to see Stavan again: she'd gone into the Dreaming Cave to look for some sign of him, stood on the cliffs of Shara and watched the boats come in, begged the Goddess for a vision or a word. Now her wish had been granted. She was being taken to the very place where she was most likely to meet him, but what a reunion! If she so much as spoke to him, he might be killed; if she got off her horse and ran to him and hugged him and asked him to tell her what he'd been doing since they last saw each other, they'd probably both be killed. Even if she rode past him as if she'd never seen him before, something terrible could happen. The nomads might be savage and unpredictable, but they weren't stupid. Arang looked nothing like Achan. He was small and dark, while Stavan's brother had been tall and yellow-haired. Perhaps Zuhan would fly into a rage as soon as he caught sight of her brother, denounce him as an imposter, and execute them both. Or if Arang survived, perhaps Zuhan would take one look at her, realize she was the witch who had enchanted Stavan, and order one of his warriors to put a spear through her before she could cause any more trouble. In either case, Stavan could easily die trying to defend them.

  The thought of the three of them going back to the Mother with Hansi spears in their chests was disturbing. She rode with her head down, lost in thought, trying to puzzle it all out. The short mane of her horse stretched out beneath her eyes like a raised path, rippling a little with each stride the animal took. When she looked up again, she found that time had run out: they were on the outskirts of Zuhan's camp, and the first tent was only a few hundred paces away.

  The camp was much smaller than she'd thought it would be — so much smaller that she blinked and took a second look. She had expected to see hundreds of tents, but there were only forty or so, pitched along the banks of a small river that curled like a slender thread over copper-colored stones. As always the sky overhead was spectacular — as blue as a bolt of dyed Shamban linen, shot through with small white clouds that seemed to have been raked into furrows — but the camp itself was nothing to brag about. A few of the largest tents were finely made, and one big white one had been elaborately decorated with sun signs, but most had been mended more times than not, stitched together with bits of hide that gave them a shabby, exhausted look. Because of the shortage of good wood for tent poles, they were all lopsided and clung close to the ground like a heap of withered brown mushrooms. Later, she learned there was plenty of room inside, but her first impression was that Stavan's people lived in a place as poor as any fishing village and not nearly as comfortable.

  As they entered the camp, children came running, dogs barked, and women stood up with spits of meat in their hands to watch them pass. There were a dozen men who could have been Stavan and weren't: a dozen or more just his age, with yellow hair and blue eyes, who didn't have his face or his smile. Marrah didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  They rode on a little farther. Suddenly, without warning, they were surrounded by still another band of tall fierce-looking warriors, who reined in their horses in a cloud of dust, scattering women, dogs, and children in all directions. The leader of the new welcoming committee was a tall man with a sun tattooed on his left cheek and a missing left ear. Glaring at Slehan, the man with the missing ear began to yell various questions in a harsh, crowlike voice. Although Marrah's Hansi wasn't very good, she had no trouble understanding what he was saying. He was the leader of Zuhan's bodyguards. Did they come in peace and did they come unarmed, or were they prepared to die?

  Slehan gave the man a cool, arrogant smile. Did Zuhan's warriors think he was fool enough to ride into the Great Chief's camp looking for trouble? Let them put away their spears. He brought great treasure from the West: slave girls, gold, cattle, Achan's son.

  When the warriors heard Achan's name, they lowered their spears and stared at Arang in awe. Even the man with the missing ear looked impressed. Would Slehan be so good as to come to Zuhan's tent at once to tell him the joyful news? the leader asked politely. Slehan would. The leader thanked him. He even bowed to him. The change in his attitude was amazing. He and his warriors were all humbled now. Marrah thought some of them still looked suspicious, but perhaps that was only her own fear getting in the way. The leader put away his weapons and said something she couldn't follow. It was probably an apology or a welcome, because when he was finished he rode up to Arang and kissed him on both cheeks and everyone cheered.

  After that, things happened much too quickly. Before she quite realized what was going on, the leader and his men had hurried Arang, Slehan, and the Chanki warriors off in the direction of Zuhan's tent, leaving the women and sentries behind. Once Arang was out of sight, there were no more polite exchanges. The sentries forced the slaves to dismount by poking at them with the butts of their spears and bellowing orders that Dalish translated. Rounding them up as if they were a small herd of cattle, they marched the women off. Dalish and Marrah were then ordered to dismount. Their feet had hardly touched the earth before Dalish was ordered to go to Zuhan's tent and Marrah was handed over to three sturdy middle-aged women who indicated by gestures that she was to follow them.

  The women were big, and Marrah wasn't sure she liked the way they were inspecting her. She'd seen that look on the nomads' faces before, and it always meant trouble. She turned to Dalish. "What do you think they're up to?"

  "I'll ask them." She said something to the women in Hansi, and one of them replied. "She says they want to offer you something to eat and drink."

  Marrah was somewhat reassured. Even though the women didn't look exactly friendly, they didn't look altogether hostile, so she followed them, hoping for the best. She didn't like being separated from Arang and Dalish, but after the dusty ride through the herd, she could use a drink of water. Besides, she didn't have any choice — not with armed warriors watching her every move.

  As she and the women walked through the camp, people came out of their tents to stare, but no one said anything and no one followed. Once again, she saw several young men who resembled Stavan, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Soon they came to a tent that hardly looked tall enough to accommodate a child. When Marrah stepped inside, she nearly fell flat on her face. The tent had been pitched over a hole some ten or twelve hands deep, lined snugly with wool rugs. She had to admit this wasn't a bad idea when you lived in a place where the wind blew hard enough to stop birds in mid-flight, but it would have been nice if someone had warned her. She steadied herself on one of the tent poles and looked around, curious to see how ordinary families lived, but except for a rack of meat drying by the fire pit, there was nothing in sight but some baskets, a few pillows, and two or three of the large leather bags the nomads carried all their worldly goods in. As far as she could tell, whoever lived in this tent had no pottery except a few sunbaked jars and griddles of the most primitive kind, no metal, and no loom. Everything had obviously been designed to be picked up, tossed on the back of a packhorse, and carried off at a moment's notice.

  As her eyes adjusted, she began to see other things — weapons mostly: a long dagger in a leather cas
e, two singing bows, a sheaf of spears, a quiver of arrows, a horsehide shield painted with suns, a blunt battle-ax heavy enough to crush a skull with one blow, and a strange, wicked-looking thing that looked like a cross between a spear and an ax. She shuddered and turned away. The Hansi might be poor potters, but when it came to making things that killed, no people could match them. It wasn't reassuring to see so many weapons, but undoubtedly every family owned dozens.

  The rugs under her feet were more welcoming. She was standing on a large mat of brown felt decorated with a border of horses and stars appliqued in white wool. If the tent hadn't smelled of dogs, horses, and sour milk, it would have been a rather pleasant place to live.

  She suddenly realized that the three women had stopped talking and were staring at her. Something was about to happen, but what? Where was the water they'd promised, and where was the food? The fire pit was full of cold ashes. The leather buckets were empty. I don't like this at all, she thought, but I can't let them suspect I'm frightened. She straightened up to her full height (which wasn't much compared to theirs) and gave them her bravest smile. It was a smile that said You don't scare me, and she hoped they believed it.

  "Your home...beautiful," she observed in stumbling Hansi, but the women just went on staring. "How many children you have?" The youngest woman held up six fingers, but the others said something to her and she lowered them. Marrah remembered that Dalish said Hansi women started bearing children as soon as they came of age and often had as many as fifteen before they stopped. Of those fifteen, usually only two or three lived long enough to have children of their own. It sounded like a horrible life, and she knew if she hadn't been so anxious she would have felt sorry for them. On the other hand, maybe asking them how many children they had hadn't been such a good idea. She decided to try again.

  "My name Marrah. What your names?"

  They said nothing. Suddenly it dawned on her that they were moving closer. She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go.

  As soon as they saw her flinch, the oldest woman yelled something, and all three jumped her.

  Marrah yelled back; she kicked and slugged and even tried to claw her way out of their grip, but she was hopelessly outnumbered. One grabbed her, one held her, and one caught her arm and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to the floor. When she was completely immobilized, the largest gave a grunt of satisfaction and settled down on her chest, pinning her to the rug. Seizing Marrah by the neck, the woman looked straight into her eyes and grinned. She had a square face, reddish hair, and blue tattoo marks on her cheeks. Her eyeteeth had been filed to points, and despite her embroidered robes and many adornments she smelled like a horse.

  She said something in Hansi, and the others laughed. Encouraged, she let fly a whole string of words, and they laughed some more. By now Marrah was thoroughly terrified. She tried to bite the arm that held her down and got a hard slap in the face. "cagk," the woman ordered, making it clear she'd like nothing better than to hit Marrah again.

  Marrah stopped fighting and lay there frightened half out of her wits. What in the name of the Goddess were they going to do to her? Was she about to be raped like Akoah or killed outright like Cyen? She'd been a fool to think the nomad women were any less dangerous than their men. Perhaps Zuhan had already found out about Stavan, and these women had been ordered to hold her prisoner while the warriors prepared the sledge that would drag her to her death.

  But if they were preparing to kill her, the women were certainly behaving strangely. Now they had her down, they were ignoring her. One pulled out a small clay pipe, stuffed some dried leaves in the bowl, and went outside to borrow a few live coals from a neighbor. When she came back, the pipe was lit. She passed it around, and the women began to talk and laugh, pausing sometimes to cough and slap each other on the back. Whatever was in the pipe seemed to be making them cheerful, and Marrah hoped they smoked a lot more of it. She knew by now that they weren't priestesses inhaling sacred smoke. According to Dalish, the Hansi had no priestesses or village mothers or women of power of any kind.

  She tried to turn her head, and the woman who was holding her bent down and inspected her closely. "cagk?" she repeated. Marrah nodded, and the woman relaxed her grip a little, but Marrah's relief was short-lived. She was just trying to think of some way to convince them to let her sit up when the tent flap opened with a rush of cool air and four older women entered. One was very tall and richly dressed with a small band of copper around her throat and another in her hair. She looked a little like a priestess queen dressed in ritual adornments, except that no priestess would have had such a cruel mouth and arrogant eyes.

  The women who had wrestled Marrah to the floor seemed intimidated. They put away their pipe and bowed, and one of them led the queen — or whatever she was — to a large, soft pillow. The woman sat down in a billow of fine robes and a jangle of adornments. Her arms were covered with bracelets from shoulder to wrist, and she had several nose rings, one of which was gold. Her three attendants squatted down at a respectful distance, and there was a brief silence. Everyone looked at Marrah expectantly. Marrah started to get frightened again. Now what?

  She didn't have long to wonder. The queen smiled and waved her hand as if she were swatting a fly. Suddenly, the woman who had been sitting on Marrah's chest grabbed her by the throat again, and at the same moment the other two pinned down her arms and legs so she was even more helpless than she'd been before. Two of the attendants rose to their feet, came over to where she was lying, and began to tug off her leggings. She yelled and fought, but if she had been outnumbered before, she was doubly outnumbered now. Soon they had her stripped from the waist down.

  She lay there, feeling ridiculous and terrified. A kind of cold dread washed over her. What in the name of the Goddess were they going to do next?

  All at once one of the women grabbed the lips of her vagina and spread them. At this Marrah screamed with all her might, but once again no one paid any attention. The next thing she knew, the queen and all the other women were gathered around peering at her — peering up her actually — and making satisfied clucking noises. One of them even pulled back the tent flap so the others could get a better look.

  Crimson with rage and embarrassment and half petrified with fear, she lay there helpless while they poked about. Finally, they seemed satisfied. The queen motioned for the women to release her and allowed her to pull down her tunic and put her leggings back on. It took her a few moments to realize they were done with her, but when she finally understood that they didn't intend to do her any more harm she had to fight back tears of relief.

  Then the strangest thing of all happened. As she sat there with her arms wrapped around her legs, glaring at them and wishing she knew enough Hansi to curse them as they deserved to be cursed, they started to congratulate her. There was no doubt that was what they were doing, because each one in turn smiled, patted her on the back, said something in Hansi, and then kissed her formally on both cheeks. Even the queen kissed her like she was a long-lost daughter.

  Wonderful. What a relief to know they approved of her private parts. If this was the way they welcomed strangers when they were feeling friendly, what did they do when they were feeling hostile?

  The kissing and patting continued. When everyone had taken a turn, the queen and her attendants left the tent. Time passed and soon they returned, wreathed in smiles. The queen pointed to Marrah and said something to the others that seemed to excite them. The next thing Marrah knew, she was being led out into the sunshine, where a large crowd of women and girls was waiting expectantly. There must have been nearly a hundred, all dressed in leggings, long tunics, and brown shawls. As soon as they caught sight of Marrah, they began to cheer, clap their hands, and make a weird, high-pitched warbling noise. It took her a moment or two to realize they were singing.

  They were being friendly so there was no need to panic, but what was going on and where was Dalish? If she had ever needed a translator, she needed one n
ow, but Dalish was nowhere to be seen and neither was Arang. She looked past the singing women and saw that everything in the camp had come to a standstill. Meat was cooking untended on the fires, little children were running around unsupervised, and the men had all gone somewhere — presumably to Zuhan's tent to hear Slehan's account of the raid on Shambah. Perhaps they were celebrating his victory, because as the women broke into another chorus of warbles, drums began to beat. The sound of the drumming excited the women even more. The singing rose to fever pitch, and some of the younger ones linked arms and began to dance around Marrah, calling out things to her that she would have given anything to be able to understand. As the women danced, they kept moving in on her so she had to move away to keep from colliding with them. It took her a while to realize they were slowly herding her toward the river, but even when she understood they intended to drive her into the water, there was nothing she could do but keep moving.

  When the dancers got her down to the river, the three women who had sat on her grabbed her by the hands and dragged her in. Fortunately, the river was shallow, because as soon as she was waist deep they started trying to push her under. She fought back, but they laughed and pushed some more. When they started to scrub her with handfuls of fine sand, she saw they were just trying to give her a bath, so she stopped fighting and let them.

  The water was cold, but not all that cold for someone who had been raised on the shore of the Sea of Gray Waves, and once she stopped struggling, the women were surprisingly gentle. Pulling off her tunic, they unbraided her hair, wet it, lathered it with some kind of plant juice that smelled vaguely like mint, and rinsed it until it squeaked. Then they led her to shore, rubbed her dry with a clean blanket, and seated her on a rock, and one began to comb out her hair while the rest stood around singing and clapping their hands.