by Paul Haines
Her expression was unreadable. I dropped the spade, grabbed my sheepskin jerkin, and followed Chinta to Astrith’s caravan. The camp was quiet. The men were only now starting to return from their hunt; the women hovered in hushed circles near my wife’s dwelling, waiting for news of the birth. The crunch of my boots on brittle grass echoed in my ears, the beads dangling from my long black braid clicked together with each step I took. Chinta left me at the stairs, her head bowed. I’m sure I heard voices rise in speculation as soon as the door snicked shut behind me.
Astrith sat up in bed, nestled beneath a mound of quilts and furs. Wet tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks, which were the greyish white of old teeth and dewy from her labour. Her head was propped up against stained pillows; her eyes were open but moved sleepily as I approached. Two large bowls filled with crimson water had been abandoned at the foot of her bed. In her arms a bundle, not unlike the one she’d held three months earlier.
“We’ve a beautiful girl,” my wife said. A smile wavered at the edges of her lips.
“A girl,” I breathed. I perched on the edge of the mattress, tried to disturb my girls as little as possible. “A daughter.” Astrith’s nod was barely perceptible. “May I?” I asked, then scooped the bundle into my arms before my wife had a chance to respond.
The baby was much smaller than I’d expected. Her skin was also bluer than seemed normal. She was so tightly swaddled all that was visible was her head, which was topped with a shock of black fuzz. Full lips, tiny nose, two delicate ears, two puffy eyes. Each feature appeared in its proper place. Her eyes were closed for the most part, but she’d peeked at me long enough to show off the deep brown of her irises. Flecked with gold, just like my mother’s. “She’s stunning,” I whispered.
Katla wound through my legs, just like Sorokin used to, and meowed to get my attention. “Look, Katla,” I said, crouching down to the cat. “A perfect little sister for you.” But I felt uneasy as I said it. The cat recoiled at the sight of my daughter; she swatted at the baby with claws extended. The girl didn’t react in the slightest. Her breathing shallowed.
“Something’s wrong,” I said to Astrith. “This infant is too cold.”
Tears spilled over my wife’s pale cheeks, but she remained silent.
“We must get the midwives, get them back here to fix her—”
Astrith shook her head. “They know she’s not right, Tomaken. Why else would they have summoned you? You know a husband doesn’t see his child until it’s been named.”
I’d forgotten, in my excitement.
“You are here to say goodbye, nothing more,” she said.
“No,” I replied. “No,” as the baby grew still. “Nothing’s wrong with her, Breath of My Heart. All she needs is to get some fresh air.’ I chuckled, tried to keep my voice even as I scoured the room for ingredients. “I’ve told you not to keep your stove so warm,”—there’s blood, grabbing a handful of soaked rags from the bowls—“and in the middle of summer no less,”—there’s hair, snatching a few inky strands from my wife’s bone-handled brush—“but I’m sure you’ll learn these things,”—there’s dirt aplenty outside—“when you’ve had more time as a mother.”
All I need now, I thought, is an appropriate vessel . . .
The cat yowled as I stepped on her tail. I smiled, shook my head at her. “Come here, my Katla. We’re going for a little walk.”
All eyes were averted as I exited the caravan. Yet even a blind man would have seen the burden I carried, would have noticed the speed with which I left the enclosure of our camp. Not many would have paid attention to the cat-shaped flicker of darkness at my heels, or would have thought it unusual if they had. No one stopped me as I blended in with the shadows; it was only fitting I bury the child before its spirit grew too accustomed to the warmth of our homes, the taste of our breath.
And I had every intention of putting my girl in the earth, but none of leaving her there.
First, I took her to the river where the waters thrummed like ancestral voices. I immersed my daughter, ridding all traces of her human birth. Then I gathered my supplies in one arm, the baby and Katla in the other. The cat fought against me until I pinned her to my side, trapped her small head in my large hand; she wailed like a newborn, which I took as a good sign. I hoped the fight would stay in her until it was needed most.
I returned to the site of my afternoon’s toils. Without hesitation, I dropped the baby and accompanying magics into the freshly turned earth, which was rich brown and smelled of horse dung. I lifted the cat up, looked her straight in the eyes: they were as vibrant an emerald as her dam’s had been. “Thank you, my Katla,” I said—and with a silent prayer for the Meito to send a strong spirit, I snapped the cat’s neck and buried her in the same pit as my daughter.
I could have left it there, and almost did. One final element was needed, to quicken the spell, but I didn’t think I had the will to provide it. If it took this long to work the proper way, I thought, there’s no chance it’s going to work now. My mind made up, I turned toward the river, ready to cleanse myself of the night’s events. To wash everything away.
I’d gone no more than three steps when a picture of Astrith, exhausted and probably barren, flitted across my mind. It was for her I was doing this. For her, and my heir. I walked back to the mound of tamped dirt, used the spade handle to drill a deep hole in its centre. Bile rose in the back of my throat. I took a deep breath, let the chill breeze soothe me. Exhaling, I reminded myself that Tomaken is no stumbler. I knelt, not to bury my girl but to bring her back.
Almost a fortnight had passed since I’d had a night visit with my wife; it wasn’t long before my stroking hand coaxed warm spurts of semen onto the earth. There was no pleasure in this act, only need. When my racing pulse slowed, I pulled up my trousers, watched my seed seep into the ground, then cried until my head pounded.
* * *
Astrith didn’t question where I’d found our green-eyed daughter. She didn’t mention the filth I’d carried into the room on my boots, merely brushed crumbs of dirt off our wriggling infant as I placed her on the bed. We’d been married long enough now for her to know my secrets. To know what I was capable of doing. I slipped into bed beside her in the grey twilight that masquerades as daybreak, and tucked the girl snugly between us.
“We’ll have to give her a name,” Astrith said. It was clear from my wife’s expression that she was already besotted. “Before we can introduce her to the rest of the clan.”
“Her name is Katla,” I said. “You’ll find she won’t answer to anything else.”
Astrith looked at me for a moment too long, but didn’t say anything. My strong wife, always proving I was lucky to love her. I kissed her full on the lips then, as I hadn’t done in weeks. She responded in kind, though we were both so exhausted our mouths soon parted. I ran my finger along her smooth brow, traced the line of her high cheekbones, then cradled her square jaw in my palm. “Get some rest,” I said. Her contented smile was a welcome pressure against my hand. “We’ll give our Katla the introduction she deserves when the rooster has properly greeted morning.”
I looked down at Katla as Astrith slept. The baby was restless, her eyes wide open. She gave off an incredible heat. In my fatigue, I thought I saw her frown as if concentrating. Darkness pooled around her head, making her hair appear longer than it had been when we were outside. The air seemed to shimmer around her; in my mind I chastised my wife for insisting on stoking the fire so fervently. But the coals had been banked hours ago.
Katla’s struggles subsided and with them my worries. My head was leaden with weariness, so I laid it on the edge of Astrith’s pillow, telling myself I’d hear the cock’s crow soon enough. I just needed to rest my eyes.
The sun was well above the horizon, her rusty light streaming through the caravan’s west-facing windows, when I was woken by Astrith’s insistent shaking. I blinked to clear away the sleep, rolled over to discover that Katla was no longer on the bed beside m
e.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, instantly awake. “What’s wrong with the baby?”
Astrith clucked her tongue at me, like a practised mother already. Her voice wasn’t nearly so assured. “Nothing’s wrong, Tomaken. Not really. It’s just . . . Do you think it’s possible for a child to be too healthy?”
As she stepped aside I got a clear view of the cradle. I didn’t have to ask what she meant.
Katla was sitting up.
My daughter blinked at me as I met her gaze—her knowing, flashing green gaze. She stretched her mouth wide in a yawn. Her gums, glistening with dribble, were studded with the tips of white teeth.
My stomach clenched as I looked at the child I’d created. Less than a day on this earth, and already more robust than my brother’s two-year-old son. I knew the colour was draining from my tanned face: I could tell this by the look of fear on my wife’s.
“Perhaps it’s always this way,” I said, sitting up, my mind racing. “Growth-spurts aren’t uncommon—”
A knock at the door interrupted my flawed explanations.
“I’ve brought some dried curds for you, Tomaken.” My mother’s scratchy voice barely penetrated the wagon’s thick panelling. Words must be whispered around a house of the dead, for fear of calling the spirit’s attention before it reaches the ghost fields. “And some bantan for Astrith, to help her regain her strength.’ I tapped three times on the wall, a sign of thanks that wouldn’t invite further conversation.
I waited until the sound of my mother’s shuffling bootsteps had moved beyond earshot before I dared speak again. “Do you think she heard us?”
Astrith ignored the question, silenced me with a sharp gesture. “We mustn’t introduce Katla like this.”
I got out of bed, paced over to the cradle, took Katla up in my arms. She was heavy, and smelled of sour milk. Her skin was pale to the point of translucence. And she was enchanting, no matter her size.
“But what if she cries?” I asked. “What will we do with the clothes she soils? They’ll know she’s here eventually, and I’d rather not enrage the ancestors. Not when we’ve become a real family at last.”
My wife, always sensible, shook her head. “The clan won’t see her now, not without suspecting—as we do, My Breath—that the Meito are playing tricks with us.”
Once again I looked at my daughter, knowing full well it wasn’t the guardians who were responsible. Not this time.
“Give me a day to think,” I said. I pressed a kiss on my wife’s forehead and the child into her arms. “Just keep her quiet until I return.”
* * *
I avoided my kin as I left Astrith’s caravan. Head down, I skirted the clearing and broke a new path through the forest. Walking would do me good; it clears the mind, gives a man the distance he needs to think. The air was still, pungent with the scent of damp leaves. Fresh, with an undertone of rot. I felt my blood pumping as I blazed the trail, filling me with good energy, releasing the bad. My face, chest, armpits, crotch all grew moist with sweat—still I walked. Over the river, whispering now that it was day; through the copse of silver birch, where I gathered strips of bark for luck; past the sentinel pines whose needles seemed tipped with flames, silhouetted against the setting sun; until the moon had risen high overhead, burnishing leaves and branches and animal eyes with silver.
My pulse throbbed in my ears as I emerged on the other side of the woods. The plains stretched out before me, a vast sea of grey and black. Long blades of sweet-grass undulated in an unfelt wind; the ancestors busily moved from place to place, shifting grasses the only sign of their passing. Hours of walking had taken me far away from my problem, but no closer to a solution. I crouched down, caught my breath, and dug my fingers into the earth.
The grasses waved in a hypnotic rhythm. Night predators rustled in the undergrowth behind me. Clouds streamed past the moon, strobing its soft light. Treetops swayed, shushed. My heartbeat slowed, evened out. Loose soil streamed through my fingers. The night was filled with echoes of the ancestors’ busy feet.
I must have dozed, then. A waking sleep in which time passed but I remained frozen, eyes open. A kestrel swooped down before me; the yellow ring around her eyes, the bright cere of her beak, and her dangerous feet were luminous in the waning moonlight. In a flash, she snatched a vole, who had innocently poked his head out of the ground not two feet in front of me. Her shrill cry of triumph shook me out of my stupor, set my heart pounding once more.
As I stood, my joints stiff and aching, my boots covered in dew, I noticed a russet feather sticking up out of the earth where the kestrel had made her kill. Smiling, I plucked it like a flower. The Meito had given me a sign—and signs, unlike the swift growth of cat-infants, could easily be deciphered.
I would consult with Temudzhin, the Meito’s interpreter. My smile broadened. Clutching the feather tightly in my fist, I turned back to the woods, my heart and footsteps light.
* * *
They did not remain so for long.
I arrived back at our encampment by mid-afternoon, only to notice a flattened patch of grass where Temudzhin’s wagon and supply tent should have been. My cousin, Chuluun, walked past as I stood gaping at the deep ruts Temudzhin’s caravan had left in the ground. Chuluun bowed his head, touched fingers to brow by way of greeting.
“How long has he been gone?” I asked, pointing at the white scattering of Temudzhin’s fire, noticing new shoots of grass already sprouting where the tent had been staked. His departure was clearly not recent.
“Four sunrises ago,” Chuluun replied. “The Pasha wanted an audience with him before the autumn markets get too hectic.” Chuluun looked up at the sky, gauging the sun’s path. “If his journey has gone smoothly, he shouldn’t be too long in reaching Zhureem Ordon.”
I thanked my cousin, then headed for Astrith’s wagon. If anything, my heart was heavier now than it had been yesterday. Even if I left right away, I’d never catch Temudzhin before he ascended the Pasha’s mountain, before he passed the palace’s bronze gates. And if I tried, there was no doubt the clan would discover Katla before my return. They would see what I’d done, and they would banish me for it. It’s one thing to heal a wounded yak, to encourage horses to stud or to provide supplies from next to nothing—it was another thing altogether to invite ghosts into our community and to make one my heir.
Astrith opened the caravan’s door before my foot had made contact with the bottom step. She looked as frantic as I felt.
“Hurry, Tomaken,” she whispered. “Get inside.”
Her hands were shaking, but still she closed the door gently to avoid waking the child curled up on our bed. And she was a child now, no longer an infant. One who didn’t know better would think she was a girl of four or five years. Her hair was glossy, long and black, just like her namesake’s. Astrith had tied it back with red ribbons, as was custom for girls of that age. The tips of the ribbons were frayed and wet; Katla was chewing one in her sleep. She was wrapped in one of my wife’s old shifts, which was too big by far. Her pale shoulders and long, sinewy legs were exposed but Katla didn’t seem to mind the cold. A soft rumble, like purring, escaped her throat as she exhaled.
“Get rid of it,” Astrith snapped. “We can’t care for it, Tomaken. I can’t.”
I looked at my wife, my mouth pressed firmly shut.
“Get rid of it,” she repeated.
I breathed out slowly. Closed my eyes. A plan started to form in my mind.
Four days to reach the Pasha’s markets. Four days to send a bird ahead, to organise an audience with my lord. Four days for the girl to grow.
I opened my eyes again, and nodded.
* * *
No bride would ever be as pure as my Katla. She had never been stained with moon blood; she had hardly yet learned to speak. This last trait alone will increase her value, I thought.
My sturdy horse seemed delighted to be free of the wagon’s halter. He sped us across hills, his footing sure and steadfast as woo
ded knolls grew into stony mountains. I gave him free rein, adjusting his course only when his exuberance threatened to lead us away from the Pasha’s territory. The horse’s unshod hooves were swift; we reached Yangjugol, the valley curving around the cliff-top palace, by the time Katla had stretched into a beautiful girl of twelve. I had hoped she would’ve reached sixteen after four days’ time; that her hips and breasts would have become more pronounced. Softer and more enticingly full.
But my horse was too fleet—we’d arrived along with the third sunrise, carried on gusts of wintry mountain air—and Katla’s growth spurts were erratic and slowing. Still, I had no doubt she would appeal to my lord. The transaction would be brief; she would be purchased instantly. I would be back on my horse before the ache of three days’ riding had had a chance to leave my legs.
As we rode through the valley, I realised a few dozen merchants must’ve had the same idea as me: reach Yangjugol early enough to prise the fattest coins from our Pasha’s tight grasp, make a profit before the chill settled in too securely, leave before the autumn markets began in earnest. All the men, regardless of clan or age, stopped their work as we passed. Openly stared at Katla, sitting in the saddle before me. In their place, I too would have stared.
Several stalls had already been erected in the shadow of Zhureem Ordon. The palace’s blood-red rooftops and peaked gables were barely visible from the mountain’s base, hidden as they were behind a high impenetrable wall. A road switch-backed up the mountain face, ending in a closed bronze gate; it would take us more than a few hours’ hard walking to reach it.
I tethered my horse by the snow leopards’ enclosure, which stood taller than the height of two men and, as far as I could see, ran the length of the mountain. These great felines were the Pasha’s pride, his favourite possessions; and like all treasures, kept under lock and key. I had no fondness for leopards. Their crystal blue eyes were too knowing, like they’d seen my misdeeds and were only keeping silent to torment me. I slapped Katla’s hand when she looked ready to reach through the cage’s evenly spaced bars. She blinked, but did not cry out as a normal child would. Her hand fell limply to her side.
