The eldest shook her head and fingered the iron fittings on the pack horses, then, very gingerly, the long knife that hung at the leader's belt. She was not understood. The women looked at each other silently. Then Marra Annetsdaughter, normally a trembling rabbit, spoke up with more courage than any woman there knew she possessed. “Tools,” she said in a quavering voice. “Hoes. Knives. Axes. Shovels. Metal. And salt. We have no salt where we live. We will trade pots, weavings, jewelry.”
Asta was leaning over, whispering to one of the offloaders, “Do your kind do all the heavy work where you come from?”
“Well, of course there are menservants and laborers to do most of it in many places, and I'm sure farmwives do their fair share of hard work, but yes, Mistress, heavy work is for men to do, not women.”
“What do women do?” she asked, like a hound on the scent of a fat hare.
The man looked at her, puzzled. “Why, stay home, tend the house, mind the children, look pretty, I suppose.” He was very young.
“But then,” Asta persisted, “how do they get their living?”
The man laughed indulgently. “If your face is as fair as your voice, Mistress, you won't have to worry about that.” Seeing she did not understand, he added, “We men make the living for our women. Isn't that so even among Falconers?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Asta said hastily. “I just wondered about—about strangers. We see so few.”
The eldest of the women had come over to Asta and was glaring at her, repeating her gesture with the veils; the leader of the men stepped over, too. “Lorryl,” he snapped. Then, more softly, “these ladies are of the Falconers.” It was a warning.
They set their bags of grain and dried foods, together with whatever metal tools they could spare from their own packs, in one of the ruined houseplaces. They rebuilt the huts, outhouses and garden plots and all, exactly as the Falconers had the previous year. They carried stones to build hearths, and even staked out garden fences behind the huts. They were twelve in number, but they worked like twenty women, and all the volunteers had to do was cook.
At night, they set up their bedrolls well away from the huts where the women sheltered, but one of them came to Arona's hut in the twilight, glancing around like a thief. She understood almost none of his words, or why his voice sounded so sly. Then he tried to handle her as Oseberg had done, but roughly, like a Falconer. To resist a Falconer, to cry out against one, meant death! But these were not Falconers, and she had not come to get a child. Twisting to release his hold, she cried out, then dug her bare foot into the dirt and tried to pull free.
Three leaders among the strangers burst into the hut, running, and without more than a glance, one swung his arm upwards under the intruder's chin, then rammed the other hand into the rough one's belly. He fell to the ground, moaning, and his leader said coldly, “I warned you, Haroc, these ladies belong to the Falconers! Five lashes.” The other two dragged Haroc out; the leader bowed as Arona had seen Egil do. “My most humble apologies, my lady; this man will be disciplined severely.”
Arona heard him mutter as he left the tent, “If the Falconers ever hear of this, Haroc will be dead—or I will.”
If they ever came to hear of it, Arona and all the women there would be dead. Somehow the girl did not feel like saying this.
“I like these strangers,” Asta Lennisdaughter said thoughtfully.
“Their customs are very different,” Marra Annetsdaughter whispered. “One asked to start a daughter in me, and her eldest spoke very sharply to her.”
“Not at all like Falconers,” a third woman agreed, “nor women, either. Who can fathom such strange beings?”
Asta looked up, then, quickly, looked down.
Egil straightened up and mopped his brow. The last of the fallen trees was out of the fields and stacked neatly to the side, where several strong young women were chopping it into firewood. What was that noise? Cheering, and applause! The women gathered round were giving their two young men three cheers and hearty praise. At least Arona, back from the trailhead, had heard! So had Asta Lennisdaughter, who was staring at him with frank admiration. His heart glowed warmly.
He never thought he'd be glad that manual labor had saved him further schooling, but he was learning nothing from Dame Birka. A headful of weather-lore, crop-lore, beast-lore, and similar old wives’ tales, worthwhile if he'd ever intended to set up as an herbwife. Some talk of male and female that he blushed to hear from a decent granddam, and was entirely women's business besides—or else frivolous beyond belief. What he wanted to learn was his letters and his numbers. If women knew these things, surely he was not beneath such teaching!
Oseberg's new employer came up and slapped her foster son on the back heartily. “Good work, lass,” she boomed, and beamed at them both impartially. Then she sat down on the nearest log and sighed. “I hope the trailhead party brings back some metal to forge into tools.”
“Will an iron pot help?” Loyse Annetsdaughter asked innocently. The huge cauldron had once held flowers by her doorstep. Now, hastily cleaned of dirt, it held whatever possessions she and her daughters had salvaged from the ruins.
Egil's mouth dropped. “My mother's kettle!” he exclaimed.
Loyse looked at him and sniffed. Her face was dirty; her robe was torn and muddy; she wore breeches, soaked and filthy from her knees to their front hem. Yet, she carried herself as if she were the wife of the mayor of Cedar Crest. “Mine by fair trade,” she said with gentle reproach. “I was kind enough to offer your mother and sisters a fine home when they had nowhere to go; they offered me this in return.”
Noriel glanced at Egil sharply. “Tell me, quick. Is it true your mother is halfwitted, as Loyse puts about?”
Egil picked up an axe and put it back down, standing straight and tall. “My mother,” he said soberly, “is in full possession of all her wits and faculties. She came here ignorant of your—customs and yourlanguage; but then, under normal circumstances, she would have no occasion to need such knowledge.” He spoke in a mixture of the village tongue, to the extent he spoke it well, and his own, for concepts and words he still lacked in theirs. Loyse scowled; so did Noriel.
“She is no halfwit,” Egil clarified, flatly, in their speech. “She does not know your ways or tongue.” He started to say “Why should she?” but knew it was his outraged, angered pride speaking and would hurt his mother's cause beyond all healing. He started to argue, then said, “I would take this before a …” he searched his mind for the word, “one who …” he tried again.
“Judge,” Noriel supplied the word. Then she defined it: “one who decides who is right and who is wrong.” Egil nodded his thanks. Noriel scowled. “The Eldest Mechtild died in the Night of the Storm. But I think you're right. This should be heard by a council of elders, at the very least.” She looked around for the nearest child and called, “Leatrice! Run find the stranger Elyshabet for us; we have matters to discuss here.” Then she turned and said, with unmistakable dismissal, “Thank you, lass.”
The new eldest, Raula Mylenesdaughter, brushed the field dirt from her skirts, took a worn spindle from her pocket, and held it up for silence. Elyshabet Sigersdaughter and Loyse Annetsdaughter each came from where she sat and stood before the hastily convened elders, not looking at each other. The elders spoke to both women at great length, then summoned everyone except the man it most concerned, Elyshabet's son. Egil found a seat next to Arona on a rock, watching her mark a wood-bound clay tablet, salvaged from the ruins and crudely mended.
“In the matter of the pot,” said the eldest after interminable wrangling, “We find it did belong to Elyshabet Sigersdaughter, who traded it to Loyse Annetsdaughter for food and shelter. Three people have told us the trade was Loyse Annetsdaughter's idea, and that Elyshabet Sigersdaughter consented because she felt she had no choice. Seven people told us Elyshabet Sigersdaughter had no idea of the pot's value.”
“She's a witling, poor thing,” Loyse Annetsdaughter put in, stubb
ornly.
The eldest pounced on her like a cat upon a rabbit, “if Elyshabet Sigersdaughter is lacking in her wits, no trade with her can be fair, and therefore is not valid. How say you, Elyshabet Sigersdaughter?”
The stranger woman flushed. “Is true, I much slow at your tongue. Mistress Loyse no speak mine none. I say,” she burst into her own speech, “if this makes one halfwitted, then Loyse Annetsdaughter has no wits at all, for I understand her somewhat, but she does not understand me. That's not the issue. The issue is the value of the pot, which is greater among you than in my home village because we trade with mining districts and you do not. I did not know that yet; you can't learn everything there is to know about a strange place in a few days!”
“Speak so we can understand you!” came the cry from several corners of the crowd. “Speak our speech!”
The Witch quietly joined them and now was quietly translating for those elders who did not trade with the outside. When she stopped, she raised her own hand, and, recognized, said, “I suspect we have a language barrier in many of these quarrels, good women, for it is harder than you know to learn a new tongue in later life.”
“She made a fair exchange, her pot, which meant little to her, for her life and her children's lives, which meant much,” said Loyse Annetsdaughter gently. “Who can call that unfair?”
Egil nudged Arona. “The priests say a bargain made under duress is no bargain at all. Pity nobody here has any education.”
“Perhaps you will enlighten them?” Arona snapped, moistening her stick to work it deeper into the clay. Egil looked over her shoulder. The system of signs she was using was not the usual alphabet, but some sort of abbreviation which he did not understand. He scowled and went back to his own thoughts.
Dame Floree put up her hand. The eldest pointed the spindle at her and said, “Yes, Healer?”
“The trade was a bad one, for Lowri Elyshabetsdaughter hurt her arm, and Loyse Annetsdaughter neither brought her to me, nor allowed her mother to.”
Elthea the Weaver then put up her hand and was recognized. “Loyse sold me some embroideries Lisha made,” she said gruffly. “Well worth the few days’ food and shelter she had of the woman.”
Egil started to comment again. Arona nudged him. When he did not speak, she put up her own hand. The elders looked startled. “Recorder?” The Eldest asked in a voice cold with disapproval, for recorders did not take part in such debates.
“Egil Elyshabetsdaughter told me they teach in her home village that a bargain made under duress is not valid,” she blurted out rapidly, her own face scarlet. How often as a little girl had she been reprimanded for speaking out in meeting? But this was not a formal meeting, and the matter was important.
The eldest turned to Egil's mother. “Is this your custom?”
“I no take part in matters village,” the woman said in her halting village speech. “But I think yes. Harald say so once.”
The Elders conferred, and examined the embroideries Elthea produced, and Egil nudged Arona again. “Do you people really bother to write down every petty squabble between old women? Your industry is admirable, but… .” He fell silent as the eldest raised her spindle again.
“In the matter of the pot,” she said sternly, “we find several matters. First, that by the customs of Elyshabet Sigersdaughter, there was no bargain, so that she went into the agreement falsely. Second, that Loyse Annetsdaughter did not keep her agreement, for Lowri Elyshabetsdaughter's arm festered unhealed while in her keeping. Third, that the embroidery we saw is a fair trade for the food and shelter the Mari Elyshabet family had. Finally, that Elyshabet Sigersdaughter did not fully understand the bargain, for it was not put to her in a tongue she understood.”
The Eldest paused. “Henceforth, all bargains between strangers and ourselves shall be made with an interpreter helping, and all strangers closely questioned on their customs concerning this bargain. But in this case, we order the pot returned to Elyshabet Sigersdaughter. We also offer her the Virdis Nilyrasdaughter farm, now empty, in exchange, if she will consent to have the pot reworked into plowshares and tools.”
Egil stood up. “Done,” he said, as if the pot were his. The eldest ignored him. “Is this acceptable to you, Elyshabet Sigersdaughter?” she asked. The Witch translated in full detail. Lisha frowned and scratched her head. “I'll have to think about it,” she managed, and fled into the fields, where she took up her labors again. Egil rose and joined her. Pushy, Arona thought, not for the first time, as she hastened to record the verdict.
As the gathered women dispersed, Arona craned her head to overhear Egil and his mother. “We will be landed,” he coaxed her. “You need not be a maidservant to that old woman any more.”
“I'm not exactly a servant,” Lisha said, scowling.
Elthea turned their way and said, “Your mother's happy with me and she don't like farming.”
“I realize you'd be losing an excellent sewing-woman,” Egil agreed, with almost poisonous reasonableness. “Mother,” he turned and put both hands on her shoulders. “You wouldn't have to work the land as women do here. You have me for that! You'd be mistress in your own home again, and my little sisters and brothers would all be taken care of, and of course, I know you, Mother, you'd never put your whims above the needs of the family and the village. Would you?”
“I have to think, Egil,” she said calmly, and nodded in dismissal.
Egil slammed his axe into the last fallen tree with all the strength of his fury. One day, one day, he would be somebody in this village, and not dismissed as a beggar lad. Then the recorder Maris—the one literate woman in this village—walked by with her own clay tablets. “Mistress Maris?” he called politely, “May I ask you a question?”
Eight
On Trial
It had been a long and hungry winter, with much to write about, for tempers were short. Huana Guntirsdaughter in particular quarreled with everybody in the village at one time or another, and dragged everyone else into her quarrels. She brought her daughter Leatrice and the sheepherder Nidoris before the elders, howling about Leatrice's wound, the negligence of those who were supposed to watch her, Leatrice's sheltered rearing, and the horror of sending one's daughters to herd at all.
Leatrice bit her lip and, eyes averted, edged as far away from her mother as possible. When the elders asked to hear Nidoris, the young herder put an arm around Leatrice's shoulder. “She did well. She was brave, and got the wolf who was stealing our lambs. If there was any negligence, it's her mother and her home village, letting her get to maidenhood without Initiation. She didn't even know enough to cry off night watch during her moon time.”
The eldest beckoned Leatrice closer. “Is this true, what Nidoris says?”
Leatrice snuffled in the cold. “It's true I didn't know about—about wolves and blood,” she quavered. “I never herded at home and neither did any of my friends. Nidoris didn't know I didn't know, and she looked after me like a big sister. I don't know what your initiation is, so I can't tell you, but I don't think I've had one.”
The verdict was foregone. After talking at length to all the girls who had been on roundup and their mothers, Nidoris was absolved of negligence. Huana was ordered to consent to her daughter's Initiation immediately. A few weeks later the little woman had slammed Dame Birka's barn door in her rage, but nobody knew why. Then Huana made a dreadful row when Leatrice left to live with the bard, Dame Ofelis, as an apprentice.
Another set of traders had come through before the snows, and Asta Lennisdaughter's bruised face spoke of her mother's violently expressed displeasure at the way Asta made up to them. The women of the village sold almost everything they owned for food, tools, and salt; many had been forced to crowd into the Visit huts the first strangers had rebuilt, and work the gardens there. And then the matter of Elyshabet Sigersdaughter's iron pot had come up. Arona still squirmed at the memory of her part in urging Egil's mother to work for Dame Loyse!
Egil, now, was like a cat
who had found the creamery. He had started learning to read and write in mid-fall, and worked on his lessons every minute he could be spared from the rebuilding, his work with the mules, and putting his mother's new lands in order. He not only came to lessons faithfully, but he asked many, many questions. “Why do you have so many words for such a simple thing as this?” he'd ask, about love, about pregnancy, about kinship, about moon-blood time.
“Why do you have so many words for tools of self-defense?” she'd ask, and he would run on for hours as if such technical distinctions really mattered! His legendary arrogance proved partly to be his foreign accent; he had—just once—commanded Arona to fetch him a tablet, in the presence of Mistress Maris, and the recorder had boxed his ears thoroughly. Then, as if he were a backward child, she had carefully pronounced the same word in command mode and request mode. One could see a great light dawn across his face.
Even more of his arrogance was simple ignorance of grammar. “What are these little words at the end of each sentence?” he asked on his seventh lesson.
“They tell how you know what you know,” Arona began, then stopped. He had ended every statement of his with the word meaning, “It's self-evident.” She spent the rest of the day teaching him the differences, and while he was still overly fond of the “opinionated mode,” as Arona and her friends promptly dubbed it, he learned others. One mode even made him laugh. “Arona! Does this ending really mean the speaker is a wretched liar?” He went around using it for days, chortling to himself.’
He had all the faults of an overindulged maiden. He was as lazy as a cat about the common chores of Records House, and managed to bungle every one beyond recognition until Mistress Maris threatened to stop the lessons. Then he learned, very quickly, and was as neat-handed as Arona herself. And he was as full of ideas as a hen was of eggs. “When I'm recorder,” he would say, “I'll see to it these old tales are properly explained, and the moral made plain. When I'm recorder, I'll separate out old crones’ nonsense from solid fact. When I'm recorder… .”
On Wings of Magic (Witch World: The Turning) Page 9
