A Woman of the Horseclans

by Robert Adams

  “Usually in late spring or early summer, Bettylou. Once we met on the high plains, but mostly we meet at some spot — some marked or easily found spot — on the prairie. At the last such, five . . . no, six years ago! we met in and around the ruins of a town that used to be called Hutchinson in an area that once was the State of Kansas. It was decided there by the council of clan chiefs that the next one would be met at a spot farther north and west, but no firm site was selected for it, so it could take place, whenever it does, in any location, and those chiefs who for whatever reason or none don’t like the time of the conclave or the location just will not bother to make the journey, Kindred Horseclansfolk are a freedom-loving lot and refuse to be bound by anything other than the Couplets of Horseclans Law, that and the inborn obligation to defend other Kindred against non-Kindred folk.”

  “But, Chief Milo,” she said puzzledly, “if the Kindred clans are truly spread so far, how do any of them ever hear of these meetings and learn where to go for them?”

  He shrugged. “Tribe bards, for the most part, who travel widely and almost constantly. Also, from messages left here and there in traditional places, cryptic signs that only a Kindred clansman can interpret. Then too there are the roving smiths who glean metals from ruins either use themselves or barter to the clans they happen across in their travels. They pass the notices of meetings on to the Kindred clans, for all that some of them are not by birth Kindred.”

  “If these men are not Kindred, Chief Milo, then what are they?”

  He replied. “Vagabonds with a flair for metalworking or trading from the more settled areas to the east and west and north and south of the plains and prairie, Bettylou, a good many of them. Some most likely malefactors of one stripe or another who found or made the farming areas too hot for themselves to endure and still live. That or non-Kindred nomads.”

  “Then all of the horse-nomads are not Kindred, Chief Milo?”

  “No, child, though there are now far fewer non-Kindred folk roving about than there were a hundred years ago, the plains and the prairie are still not yet the uncontested stamping grounds of us Kindred. But that day will yet come, child. Perhaps you’ll live to see it.”

  He had spoken the last sentence with so grim an intensity that she felt compelled to probe more deeply. “Are the Kindred clans not on good terms with these other nomads, then. Chief Milo?”

  “Not hardly!” he snorted. “Oh, one would think that with so many hundreds of thousands of square miles of open country to roam, there would exist, could exist, damned little possibility of friction between relatively small groups of folk leading very similar nomadic existences. But it simply has not worked out so peacefully as that over the years.

  “Understand me, Bettylou, we Horseclansfolk were a feisty lot from the very beginning, about two hundred and fifty winters back, but we were none of us basically savage, random killers. We fought for and still do fight for survival — the elements, beasts and men, when necessary. But we would much prefer to bring non-Kindred nomads into the tribe by marriage or adoption than to kill them for their women and their herds. Quite a few of your present ‘Kindred’ clans became such in just those ways.

  “Your father-in-law-to-be, for instance. Bettylou. The Clan Staiklee were once bitter enemies of the Horseclans, back some three or four generations. Their tribe was not large, but their warriors were every one as tough, as skilled and as resourceful as any Horseclansman, and they made it most difficult for us in the northeastern reaches of that area that long ago was called Texas. They fought us unstintingly for nearly a generation, and they might have done so for much longer had they not owned a wise chief who came to realize that his tribe was much outnumbered by the warriors of Kindred clans and vastly outnumbered by the incredibly bestial and savage tribes of utter barbarians who were just then making to push up from the southwest.

  “Because he would not see his tribe ground to powder between barbarians and Kindred, he negotiated an initial meeting with four Kindred clans, and, shortly, those four became five. That done, the five summoned other Kindred clans from the north and the west and, all united, were able to extirpate or turn back all of the southwestern barbarians.

  “Numerous Kindred clans were originally non-Kindred, from the Texas area — Ohlsuhn, Morguhn, Maklaruhn and Hwilkee are perhaps the foremost of them, aside from Clan Staiklee.”

  As the time to begin the feast neared, clansfolk of both sexes and all ages packed into the sweat yurt, but not Bettylou Hanson; the knowledgeable Ehstrah had seen to it that she, Ilsah and Gahbee had completed their ablutions well in advance of the rest. And when the three returned to the Morai yurt, Bettylou had been given back her red dress.

  She could only stare and stutter, barely recognizing the garment, for what had been back at the Abode of the Righteous a badge of Sin and Shame and a portent of certain Doom had lost every last iota of that identity and become a purely and a thoroughly Horseclans garment.

  The faded-red dress had been redyed a deep crimson, and the floppy, open-cuffed sleeves had been somehow made fuller and fitted with drawstrings at the wrists. Head hole and sleeves and a large expanse of the rest of the reborn garment were now rich and heavy with Ehstrah’s fine, meticulous embroidery; she also had used embroidery to conceal the stitches with which each tear and rent had been closed. Bettylou had never before been in receipt of anything so lovely, not in all her short life, for the garb of all of the Righteous was unremittingly drab — unbleached wool and linen and a mixture of the two, unadorned leather or rawhide. Unable to contain herself, she felt tears rolling down her cheeks still damp from the bath and irresistible sobs welling up from deep within her.

  Ehstrah — with grown children older than Bettylou by her now-deceased first husband, and just then feeling very motherly — hunkered down beside the sobbing girl and took her into her arms. Bettylou tried, between sobs, to thank Ehstrah and the others for all their many kindnesses to her since her arrival in the camp.

  “No, no, child,” soothed Ehstrah silently, “at such times as this mindspeak is far better, easier.”

  She slipped into the girl’s mind, briefly . . . and started as if she had been stabbed suddenly. “Milo!” Her mindcall lanced out. “Uncle Milo! Come to your lodge at once! Urgent!”

  * * *

  “Whew!” exclaimed Milo. “I’m very glad this happened when it did, glad that we could show the poor child’s mind how to purge itself thoroughly, once and for all, of all the filth and perverted religion her kinfolk had shoveled into it. Such a load of mental and emotional sewage would have ended in driving her mad, It will be at least two hours more until everyone is gathered out their, so let her sleep until the last minute, eh? It will do her good.”

  Ehstrah nodded, fingering one of her small arm-daggers and musing darkly, aloud, “If only I could have ten minutes, even five, alone with that priest, that Elder Claxton. the randy old goat, the child-raping bastard, he’d forever after lack the parts to do to another the evil he wrought upon this helpless girl. Milo . . . ? Do you think . . .”

  Skimming her surface thoughts, he shook his head. “Put it out of your mind, Ehstrah. There am not enough of us — warriors, maiden-archers and matrons, included — to attack that place with a bare hope of success, They have weapons and artifacts from the time before this with which they could kill at great distances, at much farther away than even the heaviest bow can cast. To succeed against those Dirtmen would take at least a dozen clans and would result in many, many dead Horseclansfolk for little loot that would be of use to us in the type of life we lead. The best thing we can do is avoid the Abode of the Righteous and pass on the word that other Kindred clans should follow suit.”

  Ehstrah sighed and grudgingly sheathed her dagger. “Of course you are right. Uncle Milo — you must be, for you have seen far more of war than have I . . . or any man or woman in this camp, for that matter. But . . . but it galls me that a despicable man like that should go on, year in, year out, causing untold sufferi
ngs, and go forever unpunished.”

  “No,” replied Milo. “I agree that it doesn’t seem right or proper, Ehstrah, but most likely this priest is as much a victim as are his prey. Both he and they were probably reared into the same perverted religious beliefs. They don’t know that what they are doing, that the way they are living, is wrong. They call themselves the Righteous, and I’m sure they firmly believe that, all of them, else — being human — they’d long since have deposed these Elders and Patriarchs.”

  He rose to his feet. “Now, I think I should complete my sweat and my wash.”

  Ehstrah looked up at him from beneath her thick brows, grinning provocatively. “Don’t go overeating or drinking at the feast, Honored Chief. Gahbee and Ilsah and I. we have firm plans for you tonight.”

  Chapter V

  Bettylou’s first sight of Chief Dik Krooguh repelled her. He was short — shorter even than his nephew, short even by the standards of his race of short men — bandy-legged and physically incomplete. He lacked an eye, and part of both ears and was otherwise hideously scarred-by his lifetime of warring, raiding and hunting dangerous beasts. But he was jolly, warm of manner, and his ready laughter had boomed right often over the length and the breadth of the feasting ground throughout the most of the celebration.

  With the feasting generally done — warriors, women. children, even slaves stuffed to repletion and far beyond with food — the little chief arose from his place and approached Bettylou where she sat between Milo and Ehstrah. He moved with a rolling gait, and that, combined with his somewhat garish clothing and personal adornments, might have served to give him a comic appearance save for the unmistakable air of calm dignity which he effortlessly bore about him like a cloak of state.

  The wrinkled hand with which he took her arm and assisted her to arise was lacking all of one finger and parts of two others, but still was possessed of a crushing though well-controlled strength. He led her slowly, wordlessly, to a spot where the maximum numbers of the assembled folk could see her, then mindcalled Tim Staiklee of Krooguh, who carefully wiped off greasy lips and chin, arose from his place and strode to his uncle’s side, trying hard not to grin.

  Chief Dik cleared his throat and spoke aloud for the benefit of those whose mindspeak was minimal or nonexistent, although he also continued to beam his message silently. Milo had explained how unusual and valuable this flexibility was, had explained it on the day he had discovered to his pleased surprise that, with training, Bettylou would one day be capable of speaking orally and mindspeaking at one and the same time.

  Smiling broadly, Chief Dik said, “Kindred, this child was captured of the Dirtmen by Tim in the very raid we are here to celebrate. Although born of Dirt and reared to it” — he patted Bettylou’s belly lightly with his multilated hand — “any man or woman or cat or horse can easily see that she most assuredly is fertile. She has broad hips and heavy teats, nor is her face at all ill to look upon; moreover, she has mindspeak.”

  At this last, there was an appreciable murmur from the assembly. Few Dirtmen of any description or type seemed to have even a trace of telepathic abilities; indeed, a third or more of born Kindred never owned enough mindspeak to benefit them or their clans.

  Djahn Staiklee, Tim’s father, arose and demanded, “But do we know anything of the sire of the babe she carries. Dik?”

  The short man just shrugged. “Uncle Milo says that he was the paramount chief of this particular batch of Dirtmen. Djahn. It’s about four days ride northeast, if you’d care to go and inquire into his Dirtman pedigree.” He grinned mischievously.

  “But what matter such trivialities, say I. The chit’s babe will be reared with us, by us, to be one of us, I have no sure knowledge who my own sire was . . . nor do I particularly care, for I do know for certain who my mother was. This girl’s child will feel the same way.”

  But Staiklee was not quite mollified. “She’s a bit long in the tooth. What’s her age? Eighteen winters? Seventeen, anyway.”

  “Not quite fifteen winters, the way we reckon time, Djahn,” replied Chief Dik. “Yes, she’s big of bone and tall, but just think of the weight of bow such a woman will be able to draw. Eh? But for the rest of it, Uncle Milo assures me she’s both healthy and intelligent. She’s already gone far in learning our ways, the ways of the Kindred of Cat and Horse, and she’ll team more . . . quickly.

  “Now, young Tim here, my sister’s son, would have this girl to wife, which demonstrates his good judgment of womanflesh, I aver. I, Dik Krooguh, as chief, am for declaring them wed this night and her your clanswoman by marriage. Are there any serious objections or questions? And when I say ‘serious’ I mean just that, too, no more nit-picking about the lineage of sires or other nonsensical questions . . . Yes, Brother Chief. You have an objection to my nephew wedding his captive?”

  “I’d not call it an objection. Brother Chief, not yet, at least,” the grizzled man replied, shaking his head. “I’d just like to know what’s wrong with her. When she rode into camp, she was bald as a baby’s arse and her scalp was terribly discolored; that discoloration has faded now and she’s sprouted at least a fuzz of hair on her head, but I want to know what brought about her original condition.

  “And this is not nit-picking, Dik Krooguh. Just remember Disease it was killed the ancestors of the Sacred Ancestors and disease has put paid to more Kindred than war or raidings or any other cause I can just now think of. If I’m to keep company with Clan Krooguh, me and mine, I’d be damned certain that they keep their camp and their bloodlines free of disease.

  “No, Chief Dik. let the girl speak for herself. She looks bright enough, and you say she mindspeaks. I’d hear her words and thoughts in this matter.”

  But Bettylou could not speak, could not even form a thought-beaming, so confused was her mind with a jumble of old litany — Tainted Seed, Scarlet Women, Sinfulness, the Ancient and Deceitful Wickednesses of Womankind. How to make these new, strange people understand . . .?

  However, she did not need to speak at all, for Milo arose from his place and said, “Kindred, the girl is not in any way or manner diseased. Her own folk kept her scalp, shaved smooth and dyed it with root juices.”

  “But why, Uncle Milo?” queried the questioner, scratching at his own scalp beneath his thinning hair. “Admitted, these various breeds of Dirtmen harbor some exceedingly peculiar customs and practices that would gag a buzzard, but this batch must all be moon-mad — at least, that’s the opinion of Zak Skaht of Skaht.”

  Milo nodded grimly. “I have scanned this girl’s mind and delved deeply into her memories, Kinsfolk, and I have found that I know of her ilk of old. They practice and live by a fanatic and much perverted form of what was, long ago, when the Sacred Ancestors saw birth in the holy city of Ehlai, the principal religion of this land. These folk call themselves the Chosen of God, though I doubt me that any sane god would willingly own them as his. Nor is the pack we raided all of them — there are possibly a full dozen groups scattered along the eastern verges of the prairie.

  “As among all folk, more of their females usually live to full maturity than do males; but because their singularly senseless religion allows a man but a single wife and forbids the keeping of concubines, their forefathers devised a cruel means of reducing the excess females in each generation, perverting their already adulterated religion still further in order to countenance their cruelty.

  “Even the primal form of their religion taught that woman was the font and container of all evil, that she was the real cause of godly man’s downfall from the grace of their creator. That religion also taught that woman was inferior to man, and that to serve man in all ways, to bear and to suckle his children, and, throughout the whole of her life, to implore the still-wrathful creator for forgiveness for her inherited part in her ancestress’ misdeed were and could be her only functions.”

  A ripple of comments, both spoken and telepathic, lapped along the irregular lines of seated clansfolk. Consternation that such silly f
olk adhering to such arrant stupidities could continue to exist at all was voiced along with heated condemnation of such practices.

  Milo raised a hand to draw attention back to himself and his words and beamings. “Wait, Kinsfolk, there is more . . . and far worse. The tenets I just recounted were of the old, the archaic religion upon which the current creed was built.

  “Now each separate pack of these peculiar Dirtmen lives under the suzerainty of a man called by the title ‘Elder’; this is a hereditary office, I have been told, passed down from father to son and so on to grandson and great-grandson. It is one of the functions of this chief to swive each and every girl as soon as she is become nubile, continuing his swivings of them at intervals until they are wedded to some man of the community.

  “However, should any of these girls conceive of the Elder, they are degraded, flogged, reviled; their heads are shaven and their scalps are dyed; they are cast out of their families and denied by all of their kin. They are clothed in rags, assigned hard, difficult and lowly chores and fed only such scraps and garbage as they can scavenge.”

  The ripple had now become a murmur like that of distant surf. Warriors and matrons and maidens commenced that it might be a good thing to scourge the prairie of such bestial and clearly misogynistic half-wits.

  Continuing, with louder voice and stronger beamings, Milo said, “Should the girl miscarry from her ill-treatment, she is flogged again, dragged far, far out on the prairie and left to wander, naked and helpless. For these folks are not as are we; they know not how to find food or even water and can easily die of hunger and thirst in the midst of what we would consider a plentitude of both.

  “If she carried to term and delivers a boy-babe, she will be allowed to remain until that babe be weaned then flogged and cast out onto the prairie. Should she, however, bear a girl-babe, they both will be cast out as soon as possible.”

  There was silence for a moment after Milo ceased to speak and transmit his thoughts, then Zak Baikuh of Krooguh shook his head slowly and spoke.