by Unknown
Marion Zimmer Bradley's
Sword & Sorceress 27
edited by
Elisabeth Waters
Table of Contents
Introduction
by Elisabeth Waters
A Hunter of the Celadon Plains
by Deborah J. Ross
The Memory Box
by Patricia B. Cirone
Grave Gold
by Jonathan Shipley
Forever Is A Long Time
by Melissa Mead
They That Watch
by Michael Spence and Elisabeth Waters
Straw-Spun
by Leah Cypess
Mahrut’s Road
by Nathan Crowder
Storm over Taktsang
by Catherine Soto
Airs Above the Ground
by Michael H. Payne
Netcasters
by Layla Lawlor
The Salt Mines
by Dave Smeds
Strength, Wisdom, and Compassion
by Julia H. West
Dead Princesses
by Steve Chapman
The Rising
by Pauline J. Alama
Ghost Pyres
by Jonathan Moeller
Jack in Black
by Linda A. B. Davis
eBooks in the Sword & Sorceress series
Copyright
Introduction
by Elisabeth Waters
Fairy tales have made a comeback lately, from two television series: Grimm and Once Upon a Time, which started last fall, to two new movies this spring about Snow White: Mirror Mirror in March and Snow White and the Huntsman in June.
Snow White is a major character in Once Upon a Time and the heroine of both movies, so it’s interesting to consider the various portrayals of her.
The best-know version of the original fairy tale is probably the one collected by the Brothers Grimm. In this version, after the Queen tells the huntsman to kill Snow White and he turns her loose in the forest instead, she lives with the dwarves, keeping house for them. She also manages to fall for the Queen’s tricks three times (tight stay-laces, a poisoned comb, and the poisoned apple), despite the dwarves’ warnings. The Disney movie of the story, which is the one I knew as a child, is very similar, except that the only trick is the poisoned apple. Snow White is still the dwarves’ housekeeper.
But it seems that times may have changed. In both Once Upon a Time and Mirror Mirror, Snow White is neither passive nor particularly domestic. She may be hiding out in the forest with the dwarves, but she’s using that as a base for guerilla warfare against the evil queen. She now has a sword instead of a broom, and she knows how to use it. (Even the rather passive Snow White in Snow White and the Huntsman manages to use a dagger by the end of the movie; the movie succeeds on its special effects much more than on plot or character development.)
I suspect that most modern viewers find it easier to identify with a Snow White who fights back. Spending years asleep in a glass coffin waiting to be awakened by “true love’s kiss” is hopefully not something that girls today aspire to. We can fight for what we want, and we have a good chance of getting it.
Nowadays we use our wits instead of a sword; a good education is the best weapon we can wield. But the fight to be a queen instead of a pawn continues, and it’s a cause worth fighting for. Women want and need to be people, not pawns or chattel, or—as MZB said when she started this series—“bad conduct prizes for the hero.”
So let’s fight on, inspired by the stories of females who do the same.
A Hunter of the Celadon Plains
by Deborah J. Ross
This story was intended for a shared-world anthology. Unfortunately, however, it was a project that didn’t quite make it off the drawing board. So Deborah “filed off the serial numbers”—changing the story so that it was no longer set in that world, and sent it to me. I’m glad she did, because it fits well into SWORD & SORCERESS.
Deborah J. Ross has been writing science fiction and fantasy professionally since 1982, served as Secretary of SFWA (Science Fiction/Fantasy Writers of America), and has taught writing and led writer’s workshops. She’s a member of the online writers’ collective, Book View Cafe.
As Deborah Wheeler, she wrote two science fiction novels, JAYDIUM and NORTHLIGHT, and had short stories in Asimov’s, Fantasy and Science Fiction, Sisters of the Night, Star Wars: Tales from Jabba’s Palace, Realms of Fantasy, and many of the SWORD & SORCERESS and Darkover anthologies. Her most recent projects include continuing the Darkover series (THE FALL OF NESKAYA, ZANDRU’S FORGE, A FLAME IN HALI, THE ALTON GIFT, HASTUR LORD, and THE CHILDREN OF KINGS, forthcoming in 2013). She’s also working on an original fantasy series, THE SEVEN-PETALED SHIELD. Two of her short stories (“Mother Africa” in Asimov’s in 1997 and “The Price of Silence” in F&SF in 2009) were awarded Honorable Mention in the Year’s Best SF. She’s also edited several fantasy anthologies.
She lives in the redwood forests near Santa Cruz, California. In between writing, she has sojourned in France, worked as a medical assistant to a cardiologist, revived an elementary school library, studied Hebrew, classical piano, and yoga, and has been active in the women’s martial arts network community.
****
Spring Moon Rising climbed the hill behind her village to greet the sunrise. Below her, in every direction, stretched the Celadon Plains. Pale green grasses, heavy with beryl-hued grain, rippled across the land. In the distance, a herd of jade bison lifted their horned heads. The wind tugged at her long braids. The air smelled metallic, lightning edged with frost. In the Blue Beyond, a rapture was gathering, a turbulence of gray and silver. The storm was almost upon them, and it was a storm like none other.
Moon thrust the thought from her, lest it prove an evil omen. Her own restless spirit put such dangerous thoughts into her mind.
“Moon! There you are!” Cheeks flushed, Moon’s eldest sister, Dew On Flowers, trotted up the incline. “Why do you stand here daydreaming, while the others are already gathered? Have you lost your taste for meat?”
Moon turned away to hide her moment of shame. It was irresponsible to keep the other hunters waiting once the sun was up. She did herself and her family no honor by behaving in such a selfish manner.
The two sisters hurried down the hill, settling their bows and arrow-cases across their backs as they went. At the outskirts of the village, they joined the other hunters. All together, the party numbered a dozen, somewhat more men than women, under the leadership of Uncle Lion Gaze. Although no longer as fleet he once was, he was such a crafty hunter that no one questioned his right to lead. Moon was the youngest, yet she had already killed two bison.
Under the direction of Lion Gaze, the hunting party set out toward the herd that Moon had seen earlier. They ran easily, at a pace they could sustain for many hours. They carried only what was necessary, their bows and arrow-cases, knives for butchering, and hand axes for cutting carrying-frames.
Moon skimmed the grass-laced earth, sweating lightly, her breath soft in her throat. Her spirits rose and the looming darkness overhead receded from her thoughts.
Several of the young men tried to speak to her. Moon knew they thought well of themselves, for she had seen the way the other young women of her clan looked at them, the sideways glances, the flushed cheeks. To Moon, however, they were as dull as sand. Why should she lay down her bow for someone she could outrun and out-hunt? She tossed her head, her braids flying, and refused to answer them.
“You are too picky,” Dew said when they paused near the top of a hill. Below, the bison herd grazed, unaware of their presence. “Endless River or Snake Strikes could have any girl he wanted.”
“Then let them!�
�� Moon kept her eyes on the largest bison, marking him for her own. He was a massive-headed, shaggy bull, and his hide was so pale a green that he shimmered like moonlight. He would be strong and fast, so she must be stronger and faster.
Dew would not be diverted. “Think what you are doing! Do you want to end your days alone?”
“Stop worrying about me, sister. There will be time enough for marriage and children.” Moon laid one hand on her sister’s arm. “I know you are trying to look out for me, but I do not need a mother’s scolding.”
“It seems that you do, if you think a good husband will wait around for you while the long grass grows.”
Moon sighed and made no answer. There was no point in arguing with Dew on the subject of husbands.
Quietly, they divided into groups and strung their bows. Moon struggled with hers, for it was new and the stiff wood resisted her. Hawk Wing made a disapproving sound.
“That’s a man’s bow,” he commented, as if she did not already know. “It’s too much for you.”
Moon drew in her breath, deep into the pit of her belly, and the string slipped into place. She straightened and met his eyes. “A bow does not care who draws it, man or woman, mortal or god. It answers only to strength.”
“Then it is a good thing we draw our bows with our arms and not our tongues, or you would outstrip us all.” Lion Gaze came up to them. “Have you finished taunting your fellow hunters, my niece, and sowing rivalry instead of comradeship?”
Moon dipped her head. “I am ready, uncle.” To Hawk Wing she said, “I am sorry for my sharp words.”
“They were true ones.” He turned, following the hunt leader.
They crept through the grass, keeping downwind of the herd. Not a sound betrayed their passage. One of the men startled a nest of plains sparrows that rose, crying out in the their shrill voices. An emerald-hued bison cow lifted its head, snorted, and then returned to grazing.
Dew crawled on her belly to Moon’s side. “What did you say to Hawk?”
“Nothing of any importance. Look!” Moon pointed to the herd. The hunting party was close enough now to smell the warm animal musk and the scent of sweet crushed grass on the fitful breeze. The bull she had chosen stood a little apart from the others. His horns, wide and tapering, gleamed like polished bone, and the morning sun glinted on his golden eyes. Lush, curling hair covered his shoulders. He tipped his muzzle to the wind, black-rimmed nostrils flaring wide. Shaking his head, he rumbled deep in his throat.
He senses us, Moon thought. He cannot smell us, but he knows we are here.
Lion Gaze gave the signal. Everyone began moving, crouched down low. If they were lucky and the wind held, they might get even closer before the herd broke. This was the most difficult part of the hunt, when the possibility of discovery attended every step. No matter how well they read the temper of the beasts, no one could be sure if the herd would flee or turn and charge.
None of the hunters excelled Moon at stealth. Dew and Hawk and the two other men in her party dropped back, letting her take the lead. She slipped between the stalks of grass like a whisper from the earth itself. The smell of the bison filled her nostrils. She tasted their sweat, the dust on their hooves. The sound of their breathing vibrated along her bones.
She caught the subtle shift in that tremor, and froze. Even as she lifted her bow into position, her legs beneath her, the bull whirled and charged.
Moon surged upright. Adrenaline stung her blood. Her vision went sharp. The bull was closing fast, his head lowered, the tips of his sweeping horns aimed at the hunters. She drew the bow to its maximum tautness and held it, waiting for a target. From behind her, the others loosed a volley of arrows. One landed short and the others bounced off harmlessly. No arrow could pierce that thick hide or that massive skull.
Closer... Moon calmed herself as her arm muscles trembled under the strain. If he turns but a little...
“Aiee! Run!” Hawk yelled.
Moon heard their scattered flight, the cries of her sister, “Moon! Come on!”
The ground beneath her feet quivered like a drum. His hooves tore into the sod, throwing up clods and dust. Still she waited. At the last moment, when the bull was but a breath away from her, he swung his head to one side. One golden eye caught her in its gaze.
She loosed her arrow.
The arrow plunged deep into the bison’s eye socket. He let out a fearsome cry. The reek of his blood shrilled in the air.
Moon scrambled out of the bison’s path. Propelled by the momentum of his charge, he hurtled into the very place she had been standing and fell to his knees. Swiftly she drew another arrow and notched it to the bowstring.
Before she could take aim, the bull heaved himself to his feet. The shaft of her first arrow had broken off, leaving a bloody wound. He slung his head around, fixing her with his one good eye. In its molten-gold depths, she read terrible pain but also an unmistakable challenge. She lowered the tip of her arrow, fractionally releasing the tension on her bow. In that moment, the bull whirled away. She did not think an animal that size could move so nimbly. Trailing drops of crimson, the bull galloped away.
Moon watched him go. Her heart clenched. To kill one of the bison was an act of courage, of daring, and also of necessity, an act that allowed her people to survive the frozen darkness of the Ice Raven. But to wound such a noble creature, to let it suffer...
In shame, she hung her head.
“Moon!” Rushing up, Dew threw her arms around her sister. “I thought you’d be killed!”
Someone else said, “What a shot! We will sing of it to our grandsons!”
“We will do no such thing.” Moon unstrung her bow and slung it across her back. Blinking back tears, she averted her face so that none of the others could see. Theirs was the glory of the hunt, the herd now galloping away. “Go!” she cried. “The hunt calls you!”
Whooping, Hawk and the other young men darted off to join the others. Only Dew stayed behind.
“I must finish what I have begun,” Moon said.
“I know.”
“You have no duty to come with me. Your place is with the others.”
Moon thought, This will be my last hunt. It would be a mercy for the bull to kill me, so that I do not return to my clan in dishonor.
In answer, Dew touched Moon’s arm. She seemed to be saying, My place is here, with you.
Moon nodded. “Stay behind me. Do not risk yourself.”
#
The plains wind sang in the braids of the two women. So soft was their tread upon the earth, the grasses parted for them. From time to time, they caught sight of the bull. Once Moon saw him stumble and fall. Her heart quickened and she pushed for greater speed, but when they reached the spot, they found only a circle of flattened, blood-stained grass.
The bull led them ever farther from the hills and plains of their home territory. At first, Moon paid little heed to the changing landscape. She scarcely noticed when the countryside no longer looked familiar.
Finally, Dew called for them to stop. “We can’t go on like this.” Wheezing, struggling for breath, Dew bent over. With one hand she kneaded the muscles of her side. “I don’t recognize this place, do you? If we continue this chase, we’ll become lost.”
Moon shook her head. Her braids swung heavily, damp with sweat. “The bull cannot run forever. He must stop, and then I will end his pain.”
“And what then, sister? How will we find our way home?”
“You have been strong and loyal, but this is not your search. I release you from it. Go back to our people in honor.”
Dew’s dark brows tensed. “I will not return without you.”
Moon knew better than to argue with her sister. In such a mood, Dew could be as unrelenting as rain. So they went on, more slowly now.
#
The light of the Blue Beyond shifted. Day’s heat seeped from the earth, and chill gathered in the shadows. Above, the storm still had not broken. Clouds churned, heavy and o
ppressive. Dew, who had been trotting along silently, began to grumble. How would they track the bison in the dark? What if they met a pack of wolves or a viridine lion? What must the men think of them, to be gone so long and so far?
For a time, Moon would not listen. Twilight, pale and shimmering, washed the western horizon. The earth smelled cool and moist. She felt as if she could track the bull by the scent of his tread, the brush of his body through the grasses, and the lingering taint of animal musk.
At last, however, she relented and took heed of her sister’s pleas. The ground turned rocky, rising sharply and making footing difficult. They entered a country of dense thorny brush reaching above their heads.
They found an open space and set about with their axes cutting dead branches for firewood, and living branches, thin and springy, for a shelter. They stripped off the bark to tie the branches together, and gathered moss and soft leaves for a bed. They had only a little water left, but Dew, ever resourceful, found a patch of juicy wild onions to roast.
After they had performed their evening prayers and banked the fire, the sisters retired to their shelter. Within minutes, Dew’s soft breathing indicated that she was asleep. Moon lay on her back, gazing up through the opening between the roof branches. The tips seemed to be reaching past the roiling clouds, toward the stars perhaps, or the faint goddess-veil. She wondered if the bull were looking up with his single remaining golden eye. If he suffered. If he hated.
Forgive me, she thought, but she did not believe he could.
#
All the next morning, they climbed. The brush here grew sparse and twisted, so dark it looked black. They scaled a pass, traversed a valley surrounded by snow-topped peaks, and climbed again. Dew said no more about turning back. They needed all their breath for climbing. Wind blew constantly, at times threatening to peel them off the rock face. Moon’s leg muscles burned. Her moccasins were meant for the softer terrain of the plains, and the stones bruised her feet.
Moon wondered how the bull could have come this far, what had driven him into such barren country, and how a beast his size, with such a wound, could navigate the narrow trails. Yet every doubt was answered by fresh evidence of his passing, the print of a massive cloven hoof, or a sprinkling of blood.
