The One-Armed Queen

by Yolen, Jane;

  She tried to remember the stories she had heard of the dark and light sisters who had lived in the Hames. A few of the stories her mother had told her, casually, and in an off-handed manner, and only when pressed. Others Skada had recounted, with a great deal more vigor. But Skada’s tales were always vigorous in a way scarcely to be relied upon. Most of what Scillia knew about the Hames—Selden being the only one left of them—came from her old nurse. Nana had spoken much about the sisters, and not all of it complimentary.

  “Your royal mother, the Anna, being the exception, my cherub …” was how many of Nana’s stories began.

  She could not remember any stories about sacrifice, however, so she wondered what the altar was for.

  She must have spoken the question aloud, because suddenly there was an answer from behind her.

  “For Mother Alta to sit and rule.”

  Scillia spun around. One of the sisters of Selden was standing, hands clasped in front of her, smiling. Scillia did not know her name.

  “Our last Mother was not a happy woman. She was hard and not always fair. But she was ours and so we loved her. She’s dead now, almost ten years. Best to remember only the good of her. The Book of Light says: One can never repay one’s debts to one’s mother.”

  “Especially,” Scillia replied under her breath, “if one’s mother is the queen.” She went around the woman and back up the path toward the Hame.

  THE TALE:

  There was once a king who had three daughters, each one more beautiful than the last. But though he loved his daughters well, he loved the golden bird in his garden more.

  One day the golden bird disappeared. All that was left was a single feather. The king took the feather and held it to his breast, crying:

  “Oh, me, oh my, oh me, oh my,

  Without the golden bird I shall surely die.”

  And he lay down on his bed and was indeed seen to be dying.

  The youngest daughter wept and wept until her eyes were red with weeping.

  The middle sister threw herself on the floor and thrashed and moaned till she was quite black with dirt.

  But the oldest daughter said, “Father, do not die. I shall find your golden bird.”

  She left the palace and rode and rode until she came to a place where the road forked. There was an old woman, dressed in rags and looking quite pitiful. The princess got down off her horse.

  “Old woman, may I help you?”

  “Some food and water would be nice,” said the old woman.

  So the princess gave her food and water and her own crimson cloak besides.

  “As you have given something to me, so I will give something to you,” said the old woman.

  “But you are poor and have nothing to give,” the princess said.

  “I have something I can give away and yet still keep,” said the old woman.

  “And what is that?” asked the princess.

  “Advice,” the old woman replied.

  “I am listening,” said the princess.

  “I can tell you where the golden bird nests or I can tell you where your own fate lies. I cannot tell you both.”

  The princess shook her head. “My father’s fate and mine are intertwined,” she said. “Tell me where the golden bird nests and I will get it for my father so that he will not die.”

  So the old woman told her that, but not where her own fate lay, which was actually quite a different thing altogether, and might have been better for the kingdom than saving a cranky, self-devoted monarch from death.

  Do you think the princess made the right choice?

  THE STORY:

  If Scillia had expected lunch to be different, she was soon disabused of the notion. Her mother acted neither like a mother nor a queen, but some stranger telling tales about other strangers who played at something called the Game and something else called Wands.

  “What are those?” Scillia whispered to a woman by her side, a woman whose mouth seemed overfull of teeth.

  The woman turned and stared at her. “What? Jenna’s daughter has never heard of Wands?” She grinned and the entire range of teeth seemed to conspire at some joke. She turned back to the table and spoke to Jenna. “A child of yours knows not of Wands? Then we must show her.”

  “I don’t want …” Scillia began. But the toothy woman already had her by the hand, dragging her up from the table and over to the hearth where a small group of women—including her mother—formed a rough circle.

  Marga took a long leather cylinder from the mantel and another woman, a blonde with hair cropped like a man’s, took down a small hand drum. As Marga untied the cylinder’s top with much ceremony, the women began to chant a slow singsong, accompanied by the steady beat of the drum.

  Round the circle, round the ring,

  The Wands of Alta now we fling.

  Praise Alta’s name, all blessings flow,

  As round the ring the willows go.

  Finally the cylinder’s knots were undone and Marga poured a set of twelve ivory-colored willow wands into her left hand. Plucking two wands from the set, she flung them with quick flicks of her right hand one after another into the circle.

  One wand was caught by the toothy woman next to Scillia, one by Jenna who was on the other side of the ring from them.

  Slip-slap.

  They flung the wands underhanded across to one another, the passage in midair making a strange shushing sound. The toothy woman caught hers smoothly, but Jenna had to make a second quick grab for her wand, an awkward recovery.

  “You are out of practice, my queen,” called Marga as the wands went back again.

  Slip-slap.

  “With wands,” Jenna replied, but she was smiling.

  “She is soft,” someone else called out.

  “A wand is not a sword,” Jenna replied, but she was grinning as she flipped the wand swiftly across to the speaker.

  Slip-slap.

  The wands were traveling more quickly now, end over end, with a fine, sharp rhythm. Then, just as Scillia was getting used to the sound of them, Marga called out “Two!” and set another pair of wands flying.

  Now the game became considerably more complex, as four willow wands cartwheeled through the air.

  Slip-slap.

  Slip-slap.

  “Two!” Marga called again, adding a third pair to the ring.

  Several more women left the table to enter the circle and soon Scillia lost count of the number of wands whizzing past.

  “Two!” Marga called again. And again, “Two!”

  “You catch one, child,” the toothy woman whispered to her. “Go on. We like to say, A girl is never too young for the game.”

  “I can’t,” Scillia said, turning her head and gesturing with her hand, as if to remind the woman she had but one. As she turned, a wand smacked into her hand.

  Slip-

  But the satisfying echo of slap did not follow as the wand fell, clattering to the floor.

  No one seemed to mind. One woman simply leaned down and picked up the wand and the game continued.

  But Scillia minded. “It is a stupid game for old women to be playing at,” she said, walking out of the circle and heading toward the door. Her palm tingled where the wand had slapped it. “And stupider still for a cripple.”

  Somehow Marga was by her side and with a hand on Scillia’s arm, stayed her. “Women with one hand have played before,” she said. “Do you think you are the only such one in the world?”

  “I think I am the only such one to find it a silly game.”

  “That is the second wrong thing you have said,” Marga told her. “It is not just a game. It is practice as well.”

  “Practice for what?”

  “For swords.”

  “These women are past fighting prime,” Scillia said witheringly. “Besides, they are cooks and farmers and carders of wool. I doubt any of them could hold a sword in battle.”

  “Then you would be wrong a third time,” Marga said. “Most o
f them fought by your mother’s side in the great battles of the War, or fought with their backs to the walls for the life of their own Hames. And they are hardly old. Except, perhaps, to one of your age.”

  Scillia shrugged and turned her hand up to a window’s light. There was a bright red mark in the center of her palm from the wand.

  “We call that ‘Alta’s Wound,’” Marga said. “You are one of Hers.”

  “I am not one of Hers or anyone else’s,” retorted the girl. “I am my own.”

  She turned and walked out the door and after several wrong turnings, found her way to the stairs that led up to her room.

  Jenna showed up moments later. “You were rude,” she said. “And you were unkind. Queens do not have leave to be either.”

  “I am not the queen, mother,” Scillia said. “You are.”

  Jenna sat down on the bed and looked away from Scillia toward the window where the sky was darkened for a moment by a rush of flying crows. “I know how to be a queen. But it seems I no longer know how to be a mother. You try me, my child.”

  “I am not a child anymore. I am thirteen. And I am not your daughter, though it seems I cannot get out of the habit of calling you mother.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Jenna turned to look at her. “Is that what all this tasking has been about?”

  “I want to know her name at the very least. And what she was like.”

  Jenna sighed. “She was …”

  “Besides being brave and being murdered, I mean,” Scillia warned.

  “Come, sit by me and I will tell you all.” Jenna patted a place by her on the bed.

  “Are you ordering me as my queen?”

  “I am asking you as your mother.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  Jenna sighed again. “Her name was Iluna and she was one of the few who ever saw that I was a woman, not a myth. I liked her for that.”

  Scillia sat on the bed, as if her legs would suddenly no longer hold her up, but not too close to Jenna. She left enough space between them that another woman might sit there.

  “Iluna.” Scillia made the sound of the name last a long time.

  “She lived atop a rock with her sisters.”

  Scillia leaned toward her mother. “A rock? What do you mean?”

  “There was a Hame called M’dorah carved into a great cliff. And there Iluna lived with her sisters. They did not have a Mother Alta, a priestess, to lead them, as did all the other Hames. Instead they had someone called a True Speaker who …” Jenna’s voice trailed off. “My little Scillia, do you really want me to tell you all of this? What does it matter now? I have forgotten so much.”

  Scillia pulled back from her, sitting up straight. “It matters to me. She was my real mother. I want to hear it all.”

  “The True Speaker told us that they had broken with the other Hames and worshipped the real Alta who waits in the green hall where no one stands highest when all stand together.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Jenna stood and walked over to the window. “If you interrupt me, the tale will never be done.”

  “Done? You want it done? I want to hear it now. This moment. And tomorrow. And the next day after that. I want you to repeat it to me till the parts you have forgotten come back to you. This is my life, oh queen, that you have purposely kept from me. Yes—I want to hear it all!” Scillia’s body shook with her anger.

  “Then listen. At that place, M’dorah, where I had gone to enlist more warriors to our cause, there were many women. But the very first to volunteer to fight was Iluna. She said—and this I will never forget—she said ‘I will go though no one else goes with me.’ Though of course you had to go with her, tied as you were to her back by cradle strings.”

  “I was tied to her by more than that. By flesh. By blood.”

  “Not by flesh. Not by blood.”

  Scillia stood and went over to stand so close to Jenna, their shadows were one on the rush floor behind them. “What do you mean?”

  “The M’dorans got their daughters from the New Steading folk. They took those the countrymen left out, neglected, ill-treated, or threw away. Iluna told me that is where she found you.”

  “But Marga said Iluna was my womb mother.” Scillia unconsciously began to rub the shoulder of the stunted arm. If she was unaware of the gesture, Jenna was not. She reached out and gently pulled the unresisting girl to her.

  “Marga did not know Iluna. I let the story stand.”

  Scillia spoke, her words partly muffled in Jenna’s shirt. “Was I thrown away because … I was not whole?”

  Jenna stroked her hair. “I was whole, my darling, and yet I, too, was thrown away as a babe. Girls were of such little value in those days. It is a custom your father and I have worked hard—and fought hard—to change. No children—boys or girls—should ever again be lost that way.”

  They stood, breast to breast, mother to child, until the darkness beginning in the sky was neither crows nor clouds but simply day’s end. They did not cry for they were past crying with one another. But they did not speak either, until night rushed in around them.

  Then Jenna said, “Do you want to hear more?”

  Scillia shook her head imperceptibly, adding aloud, “In time, mother. In time.”

  THE HISTORY:

  Memo: Dalian Historical Society (First Draft)

  The materials you have sent over so far included one of Magon’s infamous challenges to my late father’s scholarship, specifically Magon’s insistence that the empty leather cylinders found at the Sigel and Salmon digs—which he labeled “wand carriers”—was further proof of the dark sisterhood in the Homes. It is yet another quarrelsome piece in the war of words my father had with this insufferable man. I hesitate to use the word “scholar” in his case.

  Is it not laughable that, so many years after their-conflict, Magon’s words still have the power to wound me. Of course, his work is vow mainly discredited and the dark sister thesis, which he held on to so tenaciously, is hardly even referred to in scholarly circles any more. But it is fascinating to see how he tries to bend or warp every Dalian artifact to prove his ludicrous point. Metaphysical claptrap it was then, and metaphysical claptrap it remains.

  But what else can we expect from a man who spent his final years in front of one of the excavated mirrors trying in vain to call up his own Dark Brother? If his ending had not been so pitiful, it would have been amusing. I have actually considered writing a screenplay based on his life.

  This brings me to the core of this memo. To whom must I apply for permission to print the unpublished memoirs and memoranda from Magon? I am sure that if Magon’s entire correspondence with my father and other members of the Society were made available to the general public, my father would finally be avenged given the credit he deserves.

  THE LEGEND:

  It was in the town of New Teding, at the yearly Lammas Fair, that a certain Mrs. Morrison saw the one-armed child. A baby it was, unwrapped and sleeping, lying in a cradle of rushes near the Clamat River.

  Thinking the child’s mother was nearby, Mrs. Morrison did naught but cluck at its poor missing arm, and cover it up with the blanket. Then she went on to the Lammas Fair with her pies.

  On returning, she saw the basket still out in the open air. And thinking that was surely a long time to leave a child on its own, she went over to check on the puir wee thing.

  This time there was nothing in the cradle but a figure of sticks, one branch of which was broken off at the crossing. It was a tinker’s sign.

  Mrs. Morrison thought nothing more of this, till the following year when she was once again going home from the Lammas Fair, and she once again took the shortcut past the river.

  There was the rush cradle again, lying on the river bank, close by the water.

  Being a good soul, though a bit nosy if truth be told, Mrs. Morrison went over to peek in. There was nought lying in the rushes but the figure of sticks with the blanket sn
ugged up under its broken-off arm.

  The next year Mrs. Morrison took a different route home. Best to take care. There is no knowing what the tinkers—the Greenmen—will do if you meddle too often with their things.

  THE STORY:

  That evening, before dinner, the women of the Hame gathered in the amphitheater. It was in the lee-time of the moon, and so but half the sisters stood silent in the meadow. Once the torches around the inner bowl were lit, the number of women was immediately doubled. Only Marga and Scillia were without a dark twin.

  Standing next to Marga, her cape pulled tight against the cold, Scillia asked, “Why of all these women are you alone?”

  “A long story, child. But in the short: It was my own choice.” She moved away before she had quite finished speaking, the word choice floating back to the girl like the train of a bridal dress.

  Mounting the steps to the altar, Marga looked neither right nor left till she reached the stone. She put her hand on it, turned, and only then surveyed the women below whose faces were silvered in the flickering torchlight.

  “Who bears the child?” she asked.

  “Mother, we do.” The speakers were Jenna and Skada. They moved to stand by Scillia.

  “What are you doing?” Scillia asked.

  “Something Jenna should have done thirteen years ago,” Skada said. “No one ever said she was quick about things. Though in the old days we did these rites in the summer time, and not on an achingly cold early-spring night.”

  Jenna took Scillia’s hand in hers. Skada covered them both.

  “Is this some sort of …” Scillia began.

  “Hush!” Jenna and Skada said together, pulling her up onto the first of the steps.

  “And who bore the child?” Marga asked.

  “A woman of New Steading,” Jenna said.

  “And she gave her away,” added Skada.

  They pulled the now rigid Scillia to the second step.

  “And who bleeds for the child?” Marga asked.

  “Iluna, a warrior of M’dorah bled for her,” said Skada.