White Mare's Daughter

by Judith Tarr

  oOo

  The day after Danu relayed to Sarama the Mother’s refusal to give her a less uncomfortable jailer, Catin came calling at the house by the river. The night’s rain had blown away, leaving a sky full of restless clouds, and a sharp chill in the air. She was dressed for it in a wonderful coat of woven wool, sewn with bright threads in patterns that made Sarama want to reach out and touch.

  But Catin was not a person to invite such liberties. Sarama was going out as Catin came in, intending to ride the Mare along the river.

  Catin barely acknowledged Sarama. Sarama, who had grown to expect such of her, shrugged and went on her way.

  The Mare was eager for a run. The colt did not wait to be given leave: he was careening round the meadow, tail in the air, laughing as only a colt can laugh.

  Sarama had not been pleased at all, at first, to see that after all these people did know of horses. It was only the one, the colt that the traveller had left behind as tribute to the Lady.

  He was far beneath the Mare, but quite out of the ordinary in that he seemed to know it. He kept a polite distance, offered no insolence that the Mare did not permit, and had perfectly reasonable manners, for a yearling colt. If it had not so evidently annoyed Danu, she would long since have stopped pretending to dislike him.

  Away from the house and from Danu’s watchful eye, she could let herself laugh at his antics. He ran rings round the Mare, danced, curvetted, did battle with air.

  He was a well-made colt, handsome, and fleet of foot. When his time came, she thought, he would be smooth-gaited and sensible, but with ample fire.

  He still was not good enough for the Mare; but he was a very fine colt. Though she would hardly say such a thing to Danu.

  Danu was besotted with him. Sarama wondered if he knew what he had done: found and claimed his stallion, and made himself a man after the custom of the tribes. They could not have such a custom here, where there was only one stallion in all the west of the world.

  This very young stallion was swifter than the Mare, but he wearied much sooner. He ran beside her for a while as she skimmed the winter grass beside the river; then fell back, but following doggedly nonetheless, till the Mare took pity on him and slowed to a dancing trot, and thence to a walk.

  Sarama walked them both till they were cool, well down the river and then back again. She had seen another town there, in a bend of the river; but she was not minded to go exploring. Time enough for that when she was surer of herself in that first city to which she had come.

  Maybe in summer or in kinder weather there would have been people out and about. Today everyone seemed to keep to house and hearth. She blew on her fingers to warm them, and slipped her hands beneath the fleece of her saddle. The Mare’s warmth seeped into her.

  She would be glad of the fire that Danu always kept burning, of the warmth that would bake the chill out of her bones. The horses were in comfort in their winter coats and the warmth of their run.

  They were glad to run loose once she had come back to the house. The Mare waited impatiently to be stripped of saddle and bridle and rubbed dry where she had sweated. Just as Sarama finished, she pulled away, dancing and racing again with the colt, vying to be the first to fling herself down and roll.

  oOo

  Sarama was smiling as she climbed the ladder into the upper part of the house, though she meant to put on a dour expression before Danu could see. It was a game of sorts, to try his temper. He was unnaturally difficult to provoke.

  The outer room was empty. The fire burned a little low, but not banked as it would have been if he had left. He would be in the inner room, then. She warmed her hands at the fire, content simply to stand in a place that was both warm and out of the wind.

  At first she thought it was the wind muttering in the eaves. But no: there were voices within.

  She had sharpened her ears before she thought. Futile, maybe, but she had been listening harder than she hoped her nursemaid knew. She could piece together enough of what they said, to hazard a guess at the rest.

  “Do you like her?” That was Catin, and a note in her voice that told Sarama rather too clearly what they had been doing.

  He laughed, richer and deeper than Sarama had ever heard him. “No, I don’t like her. Do you?”

  “I don’t think she tries very hard.” There was a pause. “You could come back to my Mother’s house.”

  “The Mother said no.” Was there regret in that? Sarama could not tell.

  “She thinks that that one is the Lady’s messenger. I think that the Lady could have better taste.”

  “Ah now,” said Danu. “She’s not so bad. I think she’s testing me. It’s very insulting, you know, for a woman as high as she must be, to be waited on by a man.”

  “She should not be insulted. You are the Mother’s son of Three Birds. The Lady brought you here. She speaks to you. She gave you the horse to look after, and then this woman.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why,” Danu said, almost too low to hear.

  “Because she knew that you could do it.”

  “But can I?” He made a sound: laughter perhaps, or a snort of disgust. “She despises me, I think.”

  “The Mother does not,” said Catin. “Nor I.”

  Sarama had crept closer as she listened, till she stood barely breathing by the curtain that separated inner room from outer. With hunter’s care, she parted the curtain a fraction, just enough to see what lay within.

  They were wound in one another: rocking together almost idly, then with waxing urgency.

  Sarama tasted blood. She had bitten her lip. She drew back as silently as she could, crept through the room, slipped down the ladder and made herself busy with the horses.

  At least, she thought as she scoured their beds and spread fresh straw, she need not wonder any longer what those two were to one another. Was Catin his wife, then? Or were they doing what sometimes people did in the tribes, and could die for it, too?

  oOo

  They had seemed to be making no secret of it. When she went back up again with some trepidation, they were in the outer room, decorously dressed, but Catin’s hair was out of its plait and Danu wore a smile that was difficult to mistake. Sarama saw no shame in it.

  He waited on Catin as he always did on Sarama. Catin acted as if that were only to be expected: that a prince, a king’s son of another city, should be her servant. It was precisely as if he were a woman and she a man.

  What if . . .

  Preposterous.

  And yet.

  There were no warriors in this country. No one carried a weapon. She had seen knives, but only for cutting meat. No swords. Hunters carried bows, and sometimes spears.

  Danu had said that people did not fight.

  How could anyone live in the world without war? Men conquered men. That was their gods’ decree. One took what one could take, and not always because one needed it. War was glory. For a man, there was none greater.

  She looked about her with eyes that had just learned to see. No weapons. No walls, no defenses about the cities. They were all open to any who might come.

  A man of the tribes would look on this place with lust. The gold on Danu’s arm, the copper of knifeblade and axeblade, ornament and binding, the beauty of the clothing that even the poorest seemed to wear, all the painted pots with their designs either whimsical or holy—these were riches beyond the dreams of a simple tribesman. And here they were taken for granted. No one stole them. No one thought of fighting for them.

  These people knew nothing of war.

  No; surely she was deceived, or had failed to see something of vital importance. And yet all this place was open to her. These people were without guile. They hid nothing, unless it might be in their goddess’ temple.

  Maybe that was their house of war. Tomorrow she would go there. She would see if she was let in; then she would see what was kept behind that door which so seldom opened.

  It shook her to think such things; to feel the worl
d unsteady beneath her. She ate what was set in front of her, blindly, and went to bed after.

  The bed on its platform was hers. Danu had insisted on it. She had thought it was his whim, atonement for a sin perhaps. She had been amazed that he made no effort to join her there; that he slept on the floor, as naturally and as calmly as he waited on her; as if it was only to be expected.

  What if—

  Again she shut down the thought. She would sleep. Yes. And in the morning she would discover the truth of this place.

  26

  If Catin stayed the night, Sarama was not aware of it. When she woke in the morning they were both gone. There was food on the table for her, covered in one of the finely woven cloths that were in such casual use here. She ate the cheese and the bread and the fruit stewed in honey, and drank the cup of water just barely sweetened with wine.

  The horses were out in the meadow. The Mare barely deigned to acknowledge Sarama, which was her privilege. The colt called gladly as colts will, and came running to have his neck scratched. She went on, smiling, because after all he was an engaging creature.

  It was a fair day, warm for this time of year. People were out and about, and children in particular, faces that she was beginning to recognize from daily familiarity.

  They greeted Sarama with courtesy, often with smiles. They liked to try words in her language, sometimes a fair string of them. One or two were growing frankly fluent.

  Her own smile died as she reflected on what those easy, sunny smiles meant. Innocence. Ignorance of war.

  There were so many of them, and all so rich. They did so many things. They worked copper. They made pots. They wove on looms and tanned hides. They made clothing and shoes. They ground flour and baked bread. They traded in wonderful things, bright stones, shells whole and carved, wine and sweet herbs from far away. They sang as they worked, many of them; as she had caught Danu doing when he made supper of an evening, singing to himself in his lovely deep voice.

  No woman hid in house or tent here. Most of those in the streets, in fact, were women. Men seemed to keep to the houses, or else to be out hunting or herding—though always, that she had seen, in company with women.

  When she saw little children, as often as not the one tending them was a man. And that was a shock, too, now that she could see it. Women had to nurse the babies, that was nothing a man could do, but once they were weaned, they seemed to be given into the men’s charge.

  Sarama saw men walking about with children in slings on their backs, as women of low estate might do among the tribes. But these were men in profusions of copper ornaments, in beautiful coats, with strings of bright beads woven in their hair. Rich men, men of consequence, although they deferred to women as richly adorned as they.

  It was true. Men were as women here, and women were as men. Everywhere that she looked, she saw it.

  It was not obvious, not at first. Only if she studied them could see how it was. Women ruled here. They ruled with a light hand, but rule they did. Men were the lesser, as seemingly content to be so as women were on the steppe.

  oOo

  The temple rose in the heart of the city, center of all its circles. It was of two stories like the house in which Sarama was living, but larger, broader, and loftier.

  The peaks of its roof were carved in a strange fashion, huge bulging eyes in a face half human, half other: bird, fish, trunk and branches of a tree. Its walls were painted in white and black and red, a dance of spirals, of branches, of shapes like wings, and shapes that made her blush for all their innocence, because they made her think of a woman’s sex. There was strong magic on those walls, magic that even she could sense, who knew little of the gods of this place.

  Or perhaps there was only one goddess. This was her house, her dwelling in the city. From its summit every morning the Mother lifted her voice in an eerie shrilling cry, half song, half summoning.

  She was calling the sun, Danu had said once. Rousing the day. As if the sun could not come up of himself; as if he were not a god but a servant, and must do a woman’s bidding.

  The door of the temple was open, as if it waited for her. Sarama breathed deep before she ventured in. No guard prevented her. No bolt leaped out of the dimness to transfix her where she stood.

  A breath of cool air whispered past her face. The night’s chill lingered within.

  It was only a dim room with a lamp lit in it, flickering on a stone table. There were vessels on the table, fine work of the potter’s art. In one, a great bowl, sat or reclined a circle of clay-molded people, women all, with little round breasts and great round eyes.

  A greater image sat beyond the table, a massive blocky thing rough-carved of stone. Its face was a blank shield with slits of eyes, noseless, mouthless, but its body was vastly, blatantly female: huge pendulous breasts, great swollen belly, deep-incised triangle at the meeting of its heavy thighs. There was nothing human in it, and everything female.

  Horse Goddess, when she wore flesh at all, wore the semblance of the White Mare. She was nothing like this mass of stone.

  And yet, thought Sarama. And yet.

  Sarama advanced slowly, lifting each foot and setting it down with a hunter’s care. The floor was made of stones fitted close together, polished by time and the passage of feet. They were smooth, and cold even through the soles of her boots. Winter had settled in them, though autumn lingered in the world without.

  Light came in through the open door. Where it ended, the lamp somewhat feebly began. Sarama halted in front of the stone table and looked up at the goddess.

  The image sat in a chair of darker stone, more smoothly carved. It made her think, somehow, of the Mother sitting in the room where they all gathered in the evenings. The Mother had perfected that same immobility, that same divine stillness. Perhaps it was the way of kings here, as kings on the steppe endeavored to be stern and strong.

  Past the image Sarama saw a door. It was small, not deliberately hidden, but not wide open to the world, either. She bowed to the image, offering it reverence, and perhaps apology, too, for searching out its secret.

  There was nothing beyond the door except a stair going steeply up. Sarama had seen such a thing in the Mother’s house. Here as there, the stair opened on the roof, a flat space between the carved peaks.

  Here must be where the Mother stood to sing her morning song. Sarama had no sense of sacrilege. This place regarded her with neither welcome nor hostility. It accepted her.

  She rested her hand on the carving of the eastward peak. It was worn, as if many another hand had rested there.

  This place was old. How old she did not know, but she thought perhaps as old as her own people, as old as the dawn time.

  From this eminence she could see all the circles of the city, ring upon ring of human habitation, shaded by trees, divided by roads, interrupted by the open square of the market and, behind the temple itself, the dark loom of trees that surrounded the goddess’ sacred place. Through winter-bared branches she saw the house in which she had been sleeping, and the horses, tiny with distance, grazing together down by the river that touched the city’s edge.

  Even the great gatherings of the tribes had not so many tents, nor spread so wide. She had not seen how large the city was while she was in it. From above it she understood much that she had been blind to before.

  The tribes arranged their tents in lines, straight for the most part, and in squares round the king’s tent. Some, like those of the White Horse, even rode to war in ranks, which had proved useful against less disciplined tribes. These soft edges and nested circles, wreathed in branches and in faded greenery, would have struck them as very strange.

  Sarama, raised on the Mare’s hill, stood outside of both. She saw what she had come here to see. Truth. A country ruled by women, as men ruled the steppe.

  She should have been more keenly struck with the wonder of it. She could only think of horsemen riding joyfully to war. And no one here knew how to fight. Their weapons were all for h
unting, for slaughtering cattle, for harvesting the grain that they had made into a tamed thing.

  The horsemen of the steppe could run over these peaceable people as if they had been grass underfoot. They had no defenses. They knew none, nor knew the need.

  Soft people, rich people. People who had never known hunger or want, murder or rapine.

  The men’s gods had cast their eyes on this place. And Sarama had been sent ahead of them. This stone goddess with her monstrous breasts and her masked face was still the goddess of the horses, the women’s protector, lady of the white mare. She looked after her own.

  Sarama stood on the summit of the temple, gripping the head of the bird-faced roofpeak, and closed her eyes to the crowding world. In the darkness she felt herself below again in the lamplit gloom, standing near the goddess’ image. Shapes moved beyond the stone table, glimmering naked woman-shapes, dancing a spiral dance. Their bodies were human, and not all young: huge sagging breasts, slack bellies, greying black hair between their broad thighs. But none of them had a face. They wore the goddess’ own: the flat shield with its slitted eyes.

  Masks. Sarama shivered at their strangeness. Priests on the steppe would dance masked in the hunting-dances, and in the dances before the tribes rode off to war. In wearing another face, they became other; became the gods in whose names they danced.

  So too, perhaps, in this place. Every woman was the goddess, and the goddess every woman.

  A mask would not save any woman from the tribesmen’s swords.

  Sarama opened her eyes. The air had gone chill: a cloud had drifted across the sun. She had been waiting impatiently for the goddess’ word; to discover her purpose here. Now she knew.

  “Lady,” she said, “I’m one woman alone. And you ask me to stand against all of the tribes?”