“No, you shall not,” said Shateel. “He told me to watch over you.”
Wahela faced her. Her encircling arm slipped down to her side. “You! You are only a green girl.”
“He told me—”
“I for one will take care of myself!” Wahela marched away, up to the roundhouse.
Shateel followed slowly after her, wondering what Moloquin wished of her—she had no idea where to begin, and she knew that the People would not heed her anyway, that they would all be insulted, as Wahela had been. Instead of going into the roundhouse, she went out across the stream, to the new clearing, where in the spring they would plant gardens.
Moloquin had cut down all the dead trees, and the women had cleared the brush and raked it all up into heaps around the stumps. After the long rain there were puddles everywhere, but the sun was streaming in and drying out the ground. She thought, Should we not burn this? Is it dry enough yet?
At least if she did some work she would have something to show him when he came back. She went into the roundhouse, where the other women had taken up the space along the wall, to find a rake.
With Moloquin gone, Wahela saw no need to work hard. Anyway, it was a poor way to mourn Brant, to go out and work as if nothing had happened, and so she went back to her new hearth and sat down.
Kayon came in; he was making his hearth on the far side of the roundhouse, making space the way men did, just laying down the few things he owned and gouging a mark around them with his heel. Wahela started a fire and heated some rocks in it, to make a potion suitable for mourning. She sent her little boy for the water and rummaged through her stores for the herbs.
Drifting closer to her, Kayon said, “Where is Moloquin?”
“Brant is dead,” she told him. “Moloquin took him away to the dead place.”
“Dead.” Kayon looked around him quickly, from side to side.
“Come sit down,” Wahela said. “There is nothing to do anyway, we may as well share some tea.”
Kayon came within her hearth and sat down. He was a skinny, tall youth, with reddish brown hair, who never said much. Wahela put a little cup of bark in front of him. When her son returned with the water, she filled his cup and her own, and dropped a hot rock into each, to heat the water.
“Dead,” Kayon said again, and again he looked around him.
Ap Min was bustling around her hearth; overhearing what they said, she came closer. “Who is dead?”
“The old man. Brant.”
“Ah.” Ap Min lowered her head and covered her face with her hands.
“Come here,” Wahela said. “Bring the baby, we will sit together and mourn.” She brought another bark cup from the stack by the wall.
“Then where is Taella?” Ap Min asked. She brought her baby into Wahela’s hearth, and Wahela took it at once and cuddled it and kissed the tiny forehead.
Kayon said, “I’m coming back,” and got up and left the roundhouse.
The water was steaming, and Wahela sprinkled herbs into it and stirred it quickly with a twig. She cradled the baby comfortably against her. “Life begins and life ends,” she said, and kissed the baby again. “The Mill grinds everything to dust, nothing grows younger.”
Ap Min said, “He was a good old man.”
“He never said much to me,” Wahela said. “Here.” She held out the cup of tea, and Ap Min took it.
Kayon came in, the other men behind him: Hems and Bohodon. They crowded into Wahela’s hearth, and Hems said, “What is this about the old man?”
“He died,” said Wahela. “Moloquin took him to the dead place. Taella followed. They will not be back for days.”
She lifted the cup of tea, but Bohodon took it away. “What is this?” He snuffled at it, murmured, and gulped it down. Wahela laughed. They had just entered into a new house, after all; the time had come for a celebration. She sent her son for more water.
Shateel raked the garden slash over, trying to dry it out in the fresh sunlight; she noticed that the others had all gone inside the roundhouse, but she paid no heed to that, until a yell from inside brought her wheeling around.
From the roundhouse came a boisterous chanting. She went to the door and looked in.
There in the center of the roundhouse Bohodon and Kayon were dancing. Their flushed faces and quick jerky movements told her what they had been drinking, even before she smelled the sweet dry aroma in the air. Behind them, Wahela sat laughing in the midst of her hearth like a headwoman of old, surrounded by her children; she sat with her legs spread wide, her skirt looped down between them, and her hair wild as a nest of snakes. As Shateel came in, she raised up a cup and drained it down, and behind her, Hems whooped.
They were all drunk. Shateel went across the roundhouse, circling the two men in their dance.
“Come,” she said. “Moloquin would not want you to be doing this.”
They raised their faces toward her, their eyes shining, their looks unsteady and full of mirth. “Moloquin,” said Wahela. “He will not be back for days. And Brant is dead.” Saying that, she lay back comfortably on her elbow, and held out her cup to Shateel. “Come drink with us.”
Shateel hesitated, wanting to join them, to be among them, but she remembered that Moloquin had told her to watch over them. Still, what could she do? They would not obey her, a green girl, as Wahela had said. She went a little closer, and the other whooped.
“Here she comes! She is going to sit down with us, the mere people! This must be a special day.” Wahela clapped her hands together. “Come, Shateel, you will see, being happy isn’t so hard.”
That offended Shateel. In a flash she saw how they looked on her, as someone who held herself apart and above them. Behind her the men were dancing in close circles, but as he passed her Bohodon put out his hand and stroked her backside.
At that she knew she did not belong here. She turned and went out, followed by the jeers and scornful shouts of the others; she went out to the bright sunlight and returned to her work. It was better to be alone, she told herself. She plied the rake savagely at the entangled brush. Better to be alone than with such as those.
Wahela made more tea, and even her children drank some; the little boy Laughter staggered around the roundhouse, throwing his chest out like a man, and strutting. He followed the men in their dancing, trying to imitate them, and fell down under their feet.
Ap Min sat there swaying slowly back and forth, her eyes empty, her lips moving, the baby asleep on her knees. Hems sank down beside her and put his lips to her ear and spoke to her.
The girl giggled. She put out her hand and pushed him, having no effect on him.
“What is it?” Wahela shuffled a little nearer. She was having trouble focusing her eyes; her tongue felt thick. “What does he want? Oh, I can guess!”
Ap Min giggled again, her head wobbling; suddenly she fell over sideways, and Hems caught her and lay down with her. Wahela retrieved the baby from between them. She had seen how Hems loved Ap Min; with approval she watched him pull the girl’s clothes apart and fondle her, although Ap Min in a muffled laughing voice told him over and over again to stop. A woman needed a man, Wahela thought; her vision was wrapped in a golden smoky glow, her fingertips tingled, the slightest touch sent ripples of feeling through her. A woman needed a man, but her man was far away, and getting farther off with every step.
He hadn’t even told her he was going. Worse, he had told Shateel to watch over his People.
She got up, balancing herself precariously on uncertain feet. In the middle of the roundhouse, the two men were still dancing, but their feet followed no order; their heads hung down, and they no longer tried to chant or beat time with their hands. She went in between them and hung her arms around their necks.
“No one has danced here before,” she said. “You have made the roundhouse safe from the spirits, and I thank you.”
First she kissed Kayon, but he was skinny and bony and resisted her a little, wide-eyed, perhaps afraid of Moloquin. Next she kissed Bohodon.
He answered with a fierce passion. His hands slipped down around her waist and he pulled her against him. Wahela laughed. She broke away from him, whirling around like a dancer.
“Come, we shall make more tea.”
He followed hot behind her; she led him back to her hearth, where Hems and Ap Min lay entwined on the floor, and made him sit down. He got one hand inside her clothes, but she squirmed away from him, smiling over her shoulder at him, to keep him from becoming discouraged.
Kayon joined them all. He helped Wahela pour water into the cups, and dropped hot stones into them; they jiggled the cups to keep the stones from burning through the bark, and the sweet steam rose and made them all giddy. Abruptly Kayon began to sing, an old mourning song of the People, and everyone joined in with what they could remember. Nobody could remember much. The song trailed away into silence, and they sat shaking their heads and sighing.
“Poor old man,” Wahela said. She draped one arm around Bohodon’s neck and the other around Kayon’s. “Even an old man ought to be mourned for, don’t you think?”
She kissed them again. Bohodon slid his hands under the hem of her skirt and laid his palms on her thighs, and a delicious warmth spread through her body. Kayon turned his face away from her; he shifted around, so that his back was to her.
“What, are you afraid? Are you afraid of Moloquin?”
Kayon gave her a quick look but said nothing. Bohodon pressed against her, trying to push her down under him, his hands on her hips. “I am not afraid,” he whispered into her ear. His fingers touched the curly pelt of her female place.
Wahela twisted away, laughing, her head cocked. “Now, have patience. The tea is almost ready.”
A look of fury passed across his face, and she laughed again, delighted. She took the little bowl of herbs and sprinkled more of the dried leaves into the water, and the fragrance rose between them, almost palpable, making her head whirl.
Ap Min had gone to sleep. Hems gathered her up in his arms and carried her away to her own hearth; he came back in a moment and took the baby. His gaze avoided Wahela and Bohodon. He was afraid of Moloquin too. Wahela drank more of the tea. She was not afraid of Moloquin; Moloquin would do whatever she wanted, she had only to tease him and toy with him, as she did Bohodon.
Kayon still sat with his back to her. She leaned toward him, her lips against his ear.
“Come, what are you afraid of? Aren’t you a man?” She reached around in front of him and plunged her hand down between his legs, and there, hard and straight, she found good evidence of his manhood; she crowed.
“Don’t be afraid, Kayon. Don’t be a baby. Let me show you how to be a man, Kayon.”
Bohodon pulled her away from the other man. “Leave him alone—stay with me.” He dragged her skirts up with one hand; with the other he pushed her down on her back.
“What are you doing?” Shateel cried.
Her voice came like a cold blast of wind into the foggy warmth of Wahela’s drunkenness; she raised her wobbling head, unable to find Shateel with her eyes. Bohodon backed away from her, his hands sliding behind him; Kayon got up and walked unsteadily away.
Shateel came closer. Tall and slim, she stood before the hearth, shimmering all over in the veil of light the tea cast over everything. She said, “Is this how you mourn the good old man?”
“Shateel,” Wahela said. “Go away.”
“Moloquin told me to watch over you.”
“We need no watching over.” Wahela struggled to sit up. Her skirt was hiked up over her knees and she yanked it down again. “If any of us is the headwoman, it is me.” Suddenly she was sick to her stomach.
“He told me!” Shateel said. “And well he did—look at you! What will he say when he learns of this?”
“Who will tell him? You?”
Shateel’s mouth worked; she seemed far, far above Wahela, and it ached to keep her head cocked at this angle. Wahela got up on her knees. More tea would clear her mind. She reached for the water skin and the cup.
Shateel moved swiftly, batting the cup away from her. “Leave off!”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Wahela scrambled to her feet; her head spun, for a moment she could see nothing but a whirl of colors, and she steadied herself on widespread feet.
“He told me—”
“He can say what he chooses,” Wahela cried, “but he sleeps with me!”
“Has he married you?” Shateel asked, in a nasty voice.
“In his heart he has married with me,” Wahela said. She glared at Shateel, hating her.
The other woman looked pointedly around—at the drunken men, and the hearth littered with cups and clothes. Her gaze remained longest on Bohodon, glowering up at her from one side. Facing Wahela again, she said, “Have you married him?”
Wahela scowled at her. Swaying slightly, she stood in the midst of her revel and struggled with the understanding that Shateel was right. Finally she reached out her hand and pushed Bohodon away.
“Yes,” she said. “I am his wife, and he is my husband.” She turned, avoiding Bohodon’s look of anger, avoiding Kayon’s look. “Go away.” She was tired, anyway. It would not have been much of a delight, she was too drunk. “Go away!” She wheeled, her fists lashing out, driving them all from her hearth, even her children, and she went into the back and lay down on her sleeping mat, covered herself with a mat of reeds, and went to sleep.
Shateel got the others to help her, and they raked up the dry brush that covered the garden into heaps and burned it, and they burned up the stumps of the oak trees too, as much as they could. When Moloquin and Taella returned, the whole garden was a bed of smoking grey ash.
He said to her, “Good, you have done well.”
Shateel said, “The others all helped me.”
Moloquin had his mother’s axe over his shoulder; he looked at her a moment, and turned his head to survey the entire clearing. “Did you have any trouble?”
“No,” Shateel said. “But we all mourned for Brant. The men danced.”
Behind Moloquin, Taella raised her head. She had scratched her cheeks with her nails, in token of mourning; she looked tired. Shateel went past Moloquin to take the older woman’s arm. “Come inside and sit, I will bring you something to eat.”
Bohodon made himself another spear, and he crept away into the forest whenever he could and looked for something to kill with it. He saw a few rabbits, and once in the evening, as he stood dispirited by an elm tree, an owl slid by him like a shadow, but he missed every shot he took.
One night he fell asleep in the meadow above the ford where he and the other men had hunted the fallow deer, and he dreamt of a great deer that attacked him with its horns and felled him and would have slain him, had he not then wakened. When he opened his eyes the moon was high, but the meadow around him was strange, all blue and glistening, and he realized that a light snow was falling. There in the middle of it was a single deer, pawing up the snow to reach the grass. The snow that covered Bohodon had deadened his scent.
His spear lay beside him. He held his breath, for fear of warning the deer, and moved his hand slowly, patiently downward until he grasped the wooden shaft. He knew he should say some charm now, some chant, but all he could think of was Moloquin’s name. He leapt up and cast the spear in a single motion.
The deer whirled away at the first motion, but it spun around into the path of the spear, and the stone point took it through the neck. The deer went down on its knees, the spear stuck fast in its white throat, and Bohodon bounded over the snow and fell on it. Seizing the haft of the spear, he drove it down into the ground, piercing the neck of the deer all through. It took all his strength to hold the spear while the animal thrashed and
kicked and flopped, and then a gush of blood, black in the moonlight, erupted from its mouth, and its writhings grew feeble and it lay still at last.
Bohodon sank down beside it, panting after the struggle. The moon shone on the deer’s wide dark eyes. He said to it, “I have killed you because I am hungry, and this shall feed me—me and my People. I, Bohodon, have killed you. You shall feed me and make me great with my People and I am grateful to you.”
The beast gave a last shudder, and its legs stiffened out. He got up and felt at his belt for his knife, to dress it out.
The snow began to fall while Moloquin was chopping wood with his axe. He did not stop to look up but he felt the flakes that landed on his shoulders like blows, the warnings of the cold dead winter that was now on him.
When he was done, he carried a great load of the wood into the roundhouse, such a heavy load that it bent him over, and he went from one hearth to the next, giving each enough wood to keep them warm all night. What was left he took into the center of the roundhouse, to the foot of the post called North Star.
While he sat there, making his own fire, and listening to Ap Min’s baby cry, first Taella and then Wahela came to him and gave him some of their food: a cake made of acorn meal, a soup of greens and bulbs in a turtle shell bowl that was Taella’s proudest possession. Moloquin took this without speaking to the women. He ate fitfully, distracted; his head turned often toward the far side of the roundhouse, where Ap Min walked up and down, up and down, her baby yelling on her shoulder. The light of the several fires threw her shadow flickering against the wall and turned her hair the color of copper.
He thought, If the baby dies, all my People will die.
The baby’s name was Elela, a name chosen after long debate, a name that meant Our First Woman. Moloquin had come to believe that this child, the first born to his People, was a talisman, and he watched her every day with delight or apprehension, according to the baby’s ways.
Hems came in through the door and called, “It’s snowing! Everybody, the snow is coming down.”
Laughter and his sister ran to see, although it was dark, and Wahela crossed the roundhouse to call them in immediately. Moloquin got up and looked patiently from hearth to hearth until he had seen everyone. Bohodon was not there, but Bohodon was gone often lately, and was of no use when he was here. Perhaps he was thinking of running away to join Ladon’s People again.
Pillar of the Sky Page 32
