Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  Self-righteous outrage inflated her body, looking for an escape in the form of, “How dare you?” Or something similar. But she held it in check. How else was a man to react when he’d just been told he was about to die? A huge bubble of humour blasted up from her belly, disabling the outrage as she burst into a peal of laughter.

  Jarl’s face was a comic masterpiece – three parts horror, five parts confusion, together with a little boy’s hurt. “I don’t usually have that effect when I kiss a woman.”

  This made her laugh even louder.

  A wicked gleam behind his eyes overrode his ego’s sense of rejection, and he joined in, laughing heartily.

  He was first to regain his composure. “I think there are people who would say I deserve that.”

  Suppressing the instinct to laugh more, she took a deep breath and calmed herself down. “I’m so sorry. Truly, I was not laughing at you, and it was the thought that I too deserved it which made me laugh so long. After all, what else should a man do when he thinks he has mere minutes to live?”

  This set him off laughing again, and the two of them became helpless children, with neither the ability nor incentive for self-control.

  With perfect timing, Lyrelie entered the room, and Senna jumped to her feet, meeting her daughter’s gaze as though there were nothing untoward.

  Lyrelie’s expression revealed a tussle between confusion and suspicion. “I know you always say laughter is the best medicine, but I’ve never seen you use it quite so dramatically before.”

  Behind her, Senna heard Jarl’s snort, and could not trust herself to turn round, lest she started off again.

  He had a soldier’s ability to regain control when the situation demanded. “I assure you, Lyrelie, your mother’s healing techniques are second to none.”

  Decorum set in as Senna returned to her normal, responsible self, and set about preparing the vegetables for tomorrow’s broth.

  Jarl volunteered his help, but she refused, on the grounds it was too soon for him to be standing up.

  With a stubborn man’s determination, he tried to prove her wrong, but the weakness in his legs, and obvious ache in his head suggested he was still firmly in the grip of the sickness. He gave in, lying back down, and contented himself with a string of unhelpful, but witty, observations which had them in fits of laughter until the task ended.

  As Lyrelie cut thick wedges of yesterday’s bread and slabs of juicy ham and crumbly cheese, Senna ladled three generous servings of the steaming broth into bowls.

  With some help from the women, Jarl made it to the supper table, where he proved to be delightful company.

  Unlike most men Senna knew, he listened far more than he spoke, content to keep the conversation focused on topics everyone could share. Lyrelie entertained with tales of how she and her friends explored the world outside their chores and studies. He showed genuine interest in her adventures, asking questions and giving advice.

  Complimenting Senna on every aspect of the meal, he talked intelligently of methods for making the best jams and chutneys.

  Senna had to remind herself she was conversing with a military man as he discussed the healing properties of herbs and spices.

  At the end of the meal, he insisted on helping with the clearing, bidding Lyrelie to wash the dishes as he put away the condiments and wiped down the table.

  This allowed Senna to stir the prepared vegetables into the remaining broth, along with some ham to add flavour. His suggestion to add a little nutmeg to give it a seasonal edge, along with ground pepper, was intriguing. As she tasted it, Senna was transported back to a Yuletide broth Lyran had made.

  Memories of that happy time filled her with melancholy, and again she felt a sense of betrayal for having such a pleasant eve in the company of his cousin. Her husband’s tender voice sounded in her head. “Life goes on, my angel.” His tone became firm. “Do not let your life wither into bitterness and solitude.”

  8 – Day 2: Mummer’s Play

  By the time they’d got themselves ready for the mummer’s show at the village hall, Jarl declared he was fit enough to accompany them. One look at his face told Senna she need not waste her breath with any attempt to object. Once he’d made up his mind, not even the terrifying hooden horse would dissuade him.

  She graciously allowed him to place her heavy cloak around her shoulders, and took his proffered arm. With Lyrelie on his other arm, they walked in a threesome, reprising the previous eve. He kept up a stream of quips, making them both giggle.

  The merriment came to a halt as they reached the village hall, where Lyran’s father, Ranly, and Domenyk stood with the other magisters, wearing matching scowls.

  Jarl seemed impervious, nodding to both men with a guileless grin as he escorted the women into the main room.

  Alfun sat in the second row, and he moved up so Senna could sit next to Cora. Freya gave up her place for Jarl as she linked arms with Lyrelie, and they sought a place further back.

  Jarl touched Cora’s arm. “You have done a wonderful job of garlanding the hall. I have never seen it looking more magnificent.”

  She blushed. “Thank you for the compliment. But you know full well ’twas the work of a team, including Senna and our daughters. Even Alfun helped.”

  “But you were in charge, dear lady. Yours was the eye which created such a beautiful vision.”

  As Cora exchanged a shy look with her husband, a bark from the back of the hall drew everyone’s attention. Two hooded and cloaked characters stood with their backs to the audience. They spun dramatically, and Senna recognised the hooden horse who’d called at her house. The other had a wolf’s head, even more ferocious looking, and he repeated the bark. The pair split and ran down the sides of the audience, snapping at the poor unfortunates sitting on the end.

  When they reached the front, they wrenched off their animal heads and the accompanying skins, to reveal tall characters who could not be more unalike. The horse became a swarthy man wearing a black cloak and carrying a cane which he rapped on the floor. The wolf turned into a golden-haired man in a white cloak; his tender looks and courtly manners made more than one woman in the audience swoon.

  The blonde man cleared his throat and the crowd knew their part, ceasing their chatter to listen intently. “Welcome one and all to the second day of Yuletide. Are you enjoying your celebrations, so far?”

  He must have been more than satisfied with the response, it was obvious many of the audience had drunk plenty of ale throughout the day and were in the mood for cheer.

  The dark man held his hand up, and his glare seemed to meet every eye in the crowd. “That’s quite enough of that. You are not here for fun; you are here to be frightened. I expect screams and people running away from such a tragic tale. A tale so terrifying, mothers will be covering the ears and eyes of their children.”

  The blonde man appealed to the other actors behind him before addressing the impassioned man. “Wait a moment, Dalton. I believe you have the wrong story. That was Samhain, two moons ago; this is Yule. You know; adventure, redemption and good cheer.”

  Dalton stared comically at the other actors who all shrugged and made affirmatory gestures. He returned his attention to the gathering. “Many apologies, dear ladies and gentlemen, I assure you this is the first time I’ve made that sort of mistake.” He paused, peering down the room.

  “No, stop. Wait.” He held out his hand to a man walking toward the back of the room. “Please don’t leave until you’ve given us a chance. Or at least, given the rest of them a chance.” Everyone turned, embarrassing the poor chap, who held up the beaker he’d merely gone to replenish.

  This start set the tone for the rest of the performance, peppered with silliness and mistakes. These gave the leader, for there was no doubt he was the leader of this troupe, plenty of scope to make fun of himself, the other actors, and even the audience.

  Senna couldn’t help but be aware of Jarl’s frequent chuckles, occasionally bursting out into a full-b
lown guffaw as he enjoyed the antics and subversive humour.

  The mummers introduced the story with dexterity, making it match the situations and characters in the village. They took every opportunity to poke fun at authority, in particular the self-important members of the council. She snuck a peek at the magister’s bench where Domenyk, Ranly, and several others sat stony-faced, trying not to look upset or outraged at being so cleverly disrespected.

  Finally, the scene was set, and the actors told the tale everyone in the room expected, and knew so well.

  Dalton did not play the arch-villain, as Senna expected, but took on the role of narrator, injecting irreverent asides at every opportunity. The blonde man, Helont, took on the part of the heroic traveller and they enacted his tearful departure to far-flung lands, and joyful return to the arms of his beautiful wife, played by the same man who’d dressed as Mollie during the Hoodening.

  This set Senna thinking about how the inequality of power between men and women was becoming even more unbalanced. Tradition dictated only men could act in public theatrical performances for entertainment, but priestesses had always assisted in the ritualistic celebrations of the seasons, known as Sabbats. Recently, a growing sect campaigned to deny females even this small part. She understood the emphasis of the sun’s male energy, but it seemed the Sabbats had taken on far more importance than the thirteen Esbats, celebrating the moon, traditionally led by women.

  The exciting action on the dais interrupted her musings, and she was brought back to the hero’s torment at the hand of a villainous challenger, who desired his wife.

  At this point, she was aware of the dark stare from Domenyk in Jarl’s direction. By focusing on the mummer’s action, she managed to avoid meeting the magister’s compelling glare.

  She needed no excuse to watch the dais as the two antagonists enacted an enthralling sword fight. Although she’d seen this very scene many times, this crew added an element of danger, leaping between pieces of furniture.

  The fight led up a staircase outside the villain’s house, where the captured wife waved a kerchief, shouting her support.

  Along with every woman in the audience, and even a few of the men, Senna gasped when the hero made a dramatic fall from the top staircase to his death.

  A hush settled over the throng, broken only by one halfwit, shouting, “Death to the Holly King.” Then he took it too far, shouting, “Call the healer. Where’s Lyran when you need him?”

  A collective intake of breath rippled through the crowd, then a loud protest as someone slapped the man to silence him.

  Senna closed her eyes; she could feel the thoughts and intent of every person in the room, as though they were actual words of shock, sympathy, and curiosity.

  Jarl added his support by taking her hand, unwittingly sparking off another series of thoughts, speculating about his right to play that part in her life. She wished people would not be so judgemental, but that was the way in a small village community.

  Resisting the impulse to pull away from him, she envisioned a layer of calming energy reaching out from the core of her into the mind of every person who’d expressed concern, reassuring them she was not unduly upset by the remark.

  The mummers obviously realised something untoward had happened, and quickly picked up with the call, “Is there a healer in the room?”

  The man hurrying down from the back of the hall with a healer’s satchel was obviously not a member of the audience. He fed comedic lines to the other actors, making the entire raising-from-the-dead scene a hugely enjoyable experience.

  As the dead hero arose, the same wag shouted “The Holly King is dead; long live the Oak King.”

  The villain of the piece dropped to his knees dramatically, begging forgiveness from the man he’d killed, and his wife.

  The narrator quipped that the only possible way of showing true remorse would be for him to go and wash the feet of every member of the crowd, with his tongue.

  Amid the cries of revulsion, the man recanted. “Wait. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? That’s not this script at all. I believe it’s one of the mystery plays?” He again turned to his fellow mummers for agreement, but they were all collapsing in various stages of laughter at his exaggerated expression, and perfect comic timing.

  Senna thanked him silently. His antics meant the focus was no longer on her, and she could breathe again.

  The play ended on a more conventional note, with a hero getting, and kissing, and kissing some more, the girl.

  The two men played each “kiss” for the maximum comic effect, with the other players making coarse comments, but despite this, many women in the audience fanned themselves, obviously wishing they could be in the “girl’s” place.

  Senna was not one of them. Although irredeemably good-looking, the man did not tempt her at all; she would far rather be in the arms of Jarl, receiving his kiss. As the shocking thought struck her, an even more scandalous realisation hit home: Next time, she would have no problem responding with a passion to match his.

  9 – Day 3: The Wheel of the Year

  The morn of the third day passed by in a blur as every ounce of their effort went in to ensuring Lyrelie’s costume and accessories were perfect, and that she would have no problem incorporating them into her demanding dance sequence.

  On the fourth time of running through it, Senna reached her limit. “Enough, daughter mine.” She knew the use of her husband’s endearment would penetrate her daughter’s obsession.

  Lyrelie pouted. “I don’t think you are the best judge. I’ve heard it tell that a mother will always think her child’s performance is perfect. It’s a shame Jarl isn’t here, he would have given a much better opinion. Why didn’t he stay here, last night?”

  Determined not to be hurt by her daughter’s thoughtless remarks, Senna busied herself instead with the package of food Lyrelie would need to sustain her during the long rehearsal for the ceremony. As for the girl’s speculation about her relationship with Jarl, she refused to dignify it with an answer.

  “Do take care today, sweetheart. It will be a long day, and you need to pace yourself. If I know your grandfather, he will run through the entire performance many more times than is necessary, seeking perfection from every person present.”

  “We need to practise, Mama. So many of the others did not make it to any of the rehearsals, and we want it to be perfect.”

  Senna sighed. On occasions like today, she could see more of Lyrer grandfather in the girl than her father, and this saddened her.

  The village hall was a hive of activity, as Ranly registered each new arrival, bidding them to deposit their costumes in an ante-room. Domenyk directed the youngsters to clear away all the chairs from the previous night’s performance, and form them into a circle representing the stones.

  Depositing a kiss on her daughter’s cheek, she spotted Cora doing the same. She waved, thinking it would be nice to walk back with her and catch up without the men folk around.

  But it was not to be. Domenyk caught her arm before she could reach Cora. “Might I have a word, Mistress Senna?”

  He had again reverted to formality, both in his address, and his demeanour. Indicating a door at the back of the hall, he took her to what was undoubtedly his office, closing the door behind her.

  “Oh dear. I feel as though you have brought me here for a telling-off. Have I done something wrong?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you think you’ve done wrong?”

  She shrugged, trying to lighten the mood with an inconsequential remark, but the intensity of his gaze made it hard for her to think. “I’m not sure. Maybe you could give me an inkling?”

  For an instant, his eyes burned with an unnatural passion, something she did not associate with his normal superb self-control. It felt as though he wished to force a confession and she suppressed a shudder. Alfun had described tales from other parts of the country where the new religion had taken such a stronghold, that women were being forced to confess
to all manner of sins against God and his representatives, meaning men.

  Knowing she’d done nothing amiss, Senna met his glare with an innocent gaze. With more than a little effort on her part, she managed to remain calm, not allowing him to intimidate her, or force her to say anything which was none of his business.

  Whatever passion held him in its grip seemed difficult to thwart, and he visibly shook it off. “I wonder if you are aware, being such an innocent, of the dangers of courting speculation and gossip.”

  Filling her expression with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, she bade her time, knowing if she kept silent he would elucidate.

  Sure enough, he leapt in to fill the silence she left. “As the daughter-by-marriage of Magister Ranly, you have a duty to be much more circumspect about who you are seen with.”

  “Why, of course. How could I ever forget when he reminds me so often?” She kept her gaze level, to match her tone.

  Without pausing to listen to her response, he continued. “And more importantly, if you are to be walking out with me, you must keep every aspect of your life, and that of your daughter’s, beyond reproach.”

  Showing no reaction proved a task and a half, as her inner voice wanted to scream a protest, while her eyebrows desired nothing more than to raise heavenward. What part of his outrageous ideas should she tackle first? She was spoilt for choice. Deciding to ignore his assumption about their relationship, she felt bound to put him straight about a few things. “I do not see how my father-by-marriage could be upset about me ministering to anyone who comes to my door, seeking a potion or salve for their ailment. Magister Ranly has, after all, agreed that, in the absence of any male healer, it falls on me to fulfil this function for the village.”

  Her indomitable posture and voice caused him to flinch back.

  She pressed home the advantage. “Would you rather the village folk had a three-hour journey to visit the nearest male healer?”