Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  This year’s contest had many more storytellers than anything else, and Senna found herself unable to distinguish between them. They all used the same formula for their delivery, and it seemed to her very similar to the current bard’s style.

  The second woman, Suzelle, clearly in her third decade, and with more confidence than the younger contenders, paused before starting.

  Domenyk had been muttering something to the judge sat on his right, whose name Senna could still not remember.

  Without looking, he waved at Suzelle to commence, but she remained silent until he looked up. “Well, get on with it, then.”

  Her cheeky wink delighted many in the audience, who chuckled at her boldness. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t miss any of it.”

  Senna sensed his outrage at being confronted, coupled with his evident dislike of the woman, and knew this poor thing would not stand a chance of winning.

  However, when the woman opened her mouth, what came out was purest heaven. Blessed with the voice of an angel, she combined her conventional singing of the verses with an engagingly comic replacement of the chorus. The song told the well-known story of King Arthur and his knights, but her clever pieces of theatre enacting the parts of the tale dealing with Merlin and Guinevere appealed to those in the audience who did not care so much for singing.

  The applause registered at five on Senna’s scale, the only act so far which had done so. At the end, she glanced at Domenyk’s notes to see he had only given her one out of five in both categories. Hopefully, the other judges would be more open-minded.

  At that point, Senna went back and re-examined the marks she’d given the other contenders, compared to that performance, which she was pretty sure would be unbeatable. But there were still two acts to go, and the final one was a young man whose acting skills were at least as good as any of the mummers she’d ever seen.

  Nikkei’s script was an original take on the Christian nativity, which she now felt she understood so much better. His applause registered almost as much as Suzelle’s, maybe four and a half rather than a five.

  While Domenyk wrote down the top three names from each judge, the Bard did a quick summary of each of the eleven acts. He did not merely describe them, but mimicked them with surprising accuracy.

  After collecting from four of the judges, Suzelle was in the lead with four votes whereas Nikkei had three. Domenyk added a tally for Nikkei, making it a tie. Only one of the other names had more than one vote, so it wouldn’t have mattered which other names he chose.

  “Oh dear, a tie. This has never happened before. I think, as organiser of this contest, I should have the casting vote.”

  “But it’s not all about you.” Ranly frowned. “There was a tie on a previous year, and they put it to the audience vote.”

  Senna could tell Domenyk knew Suzelle would win by the strength of the prior audience reaction. After a moment’s thought, she had a flash of inspiration. “How about having a King and Queen, like at Beltane?”

  Councillor Osman and Lyran’s father agreed it seemed like a fine suggestion, and the other man made a non-committal shrug.

  Domenyk’s glare said he was none too pleased, but he could do little about it, as the Bard requested a word from the judges.

  Taking charge, Senna rose and made her way to the dais, where she quickly briefed the Bard, showing him the results and asking him to stall for a moment.

  He distracted the audience by asking them to give a big round of applause to all the contenders, and then naming each of the judges who took a bow with a flourish.

  As he commanded the room, Senna got three of the leftover ivy circlets, and wove ribbons to bind them together, making a temporary crown.

  Holding it behind her back, she approached the front and thanked the Bard for his wonderful efforts, urging the audience to give him such applause it would leave his ears ringing for a week.

  They complied, and he bowed deeply to her, delighted with her comments. Bowing to the audience, he milked it for as long as she would allow before some wit in the audience shouted to get a move on, some of them were hungry.

  Senna commended the two people in fourth and third place, and then announced the tie for the top. “This year, we have decided, because we could not choose between them that we will have two winners, a Wordy King and a Wordy Queen. Will Suzelle and Nikkei please come to the front?”

  As the departing Bard handed over his crown, Senna placed her makeshift one atop Suzelle’s head, whispering that they would get a proper crown made before she had her first duty.

  The ex-Bard then announced the food was ready, inviting everyone to the dining hall, with the procession led by the judges and the winners.

  Domenyk took her arm with a false smile; she felt the anger building inside him as the other judges complimented her on an excellent solution.

  Councillor Osman went a step further. “That was an inspired idea, we were recently talking about the fact a woman has never won. This is an excellent compromise, so well done.”

  Senna was expecting some kind of backlash from Domenyk, but he was forced to keep a string of pleasantries because Lyran’s father, who sat on the other side, seemed to spend his entire time focused on whatever Senna did or said. She found it a little unsettling, not having spent much time in the man’s company, even when his son was alive.

  At the end of the eve, he gallantly offered to escort her home, but the very idea made her uncomfortable.

  She declined gracefully, saying she did not want to put him out of his way, and Cora and Alfun would provide sufficient escort.

  A short while after Lyrelie had gone up to bed, Senna relaxed in her rocking chair with a small goblet of brandy-wine. Her thoughts returned to the strange behaviour of both magisters. Domenyk had been unusually obtuse, but the real surprise was the way her father-by-marriage had sprung to her defence. She could not remember Ranly being so supportive, ever since she’d known him.

  A howling outside brought her out of her reverie. Although cat fights were commonplace, she did not like to think of them hurting each other. Knowing a sound was normally enough to split them apart, she opened the door. It was forced inward by a lurching figure, surrounded by a cloud of stale wine and liquor.

  “Magister Domenyk! How dare you force your way into my house at this time of night? Have you no sense of decency?” She reasoned an appeal to his sense of propriety might reach through his drunken miasma.

  It had no impact as he clung to the table for support and pointed his finger at her. “You may think you are very clever, but I warn you, it is not a good idea to make a fool of me.”

  He’d said something very similar before, but at this time of night, with no one around, she felt extremely vulnerable.

  “I will ask you to leave now.” Keeping her tone calm, she left it at that, seeing no point wasting breath making threats she could not hope to keep.

  The wagging finger got close enough to brush the tip of her nose. “When you are my wife, you will never again oppose me in public. And be assured you will be my wife. No one else in this village would dare to go near you for fear of upsetting me.”

  The man thought highly of himself, that was clear, but sadly, he was right. Any man who wanted to prevail in the village would not deem her worthy of getting on the wrong side of the man. Particularly if his persistent efforts to lead the council proved successful.

  “I see you understand. Good. You would do well to accept my offer graciously, or it will be the worst for you.”

  “I am in no position to accept any offer until the mourning is over. So I suggest you go away and come back next week.” Opening the door, she all but pushed him out, closing it behind and ramming in the two bolts with a loud clunk.

  Shaking more with anger than fear, she paced round the room for a moment, trying to expel the negativity his visit had built up in her. Bracing her hands against the table, she tensed every muscle in her body, creating a deep breath within her. She expelled this to
a count of thirteen, by which time she’d almost run out of oxygen. Controlling her intake also to a slow count of thirteen, she repeated this several times until the physical reaction to her mental state had diminished. It had not, however, cleared completely, so she resumed her position in the chair, letting the rocking motion lure her into a meditative state.

  As ever, she zoomed straight into her dreamscape, which she now recognised as the northern battleground where Jarl and Dennon fought an unknown enemy.

  While searching for them, she flinched at the bloody patch of ground, buzzing with some kind of insect, even though the tiny creatures should normally all be dead at this time of year.

  A little further on, she came across her husband, and suddenly his absence made sense. He’d been up north, looking out for his cousin. Before she had a chance to alert Lyran of her presence, Jarl staggered into view, blood soaking through his shoulder. Close behind, came Dennon, an arrow through the meaty part of his thigh, which someone had already treated with a tourniquet to reduce the blood loss and allow him to walk. As before, they had become separated from the rest of the band.

  18 – Day 8: Freya-Day

  Senna was awakened the next day with a kiss. Two actually, one on each cheek, as her daughter recited the traditional Freya-Day greeting: “Peaceful blessings from our Lady of Love.”

  As she returned the ritual, with the addition of a hug, Senna groaned. “Drat. I forgot to get the mistletoe.”

  Lyrelie waved the branch in her hand. “Good thing I remembered.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. What would I do without you?”

  “Borrow some from Cora. Like last year, and the year before.”

  Grinning at her daughter’s impudence, Senna reluctantly pulled back the covers, meeting her favourite Yule day with less enthusiasm than normal. The various concerns in her life were taking their toll on her energy level; in particular, the disturbing nightmares and the unwelcome advances of the magister.

  But there were things to be done: She’d taken upon herself to provide the puddings for the Freya-Share later on. Also, on the way back from her daily visits, she’d promised to call in on an elderly neighbour to help her to create a dish for the eve’s event.

  Her journey to Marena’s house took at least three times as long as normal, for every person she met wanted to exchange the Freya-Day greeting and hug. By the time she reached the house, her heart brimmed with a surplus of unconditional love for humanity.

  Marena’s greeting did not have even as much joy as on a normal day, let alone the added cheer of this special day. Senna was alerted to the possibility of the melancholy which sometimes affected mothers after the birth. Lyran had spoken of a case so intense, the mother had been found trying to drown herself in the river. The poor woman had believed herself to be such a poor mother to her babe she no longer wanted to live. He’d managed to counsel her away from these thoughts, and had the benefit of another experienced midwife who understood the nature of the dreadful condition, and supported the woman with her gentle kindness.

  After the babe’s checks, Senna sat for a while with Marena, sharing a brew and a mincen parcel. Following Lyran’s advice, she knew it was important to uncover the reason for the sadness. It needed to be brought into the air so it could be examined, and the fear at the root of it destroyed. “How are you managing without Dennon?”

  A sorrowful gaze into the heart of the fire told its tale. “I miss him terribly. Not that he was ever much help with the babes when they were this tiny.” The ghost of a smile tugged the corners of her lips upward. “But he did his share looking after the other children, keeping them out of my hair.”

  Senna sensed she had more to say, but something prevented her from the telling. She waited, willing the girl to share what bothered her. The tactic worked.

  After a few silent moments, broken only by the noisy snorts of the babe in the rocking cradle, Marena shook herself out of the visions gripping her. “Oh, dear. You will think I’m touched, but I’ve been having more nightmares.” She paused, her gaze searching Senna’s face.

  “I know they are only dreams, but they are so very real. The shouting, and the awful noise the swords make when they clash against each other. And the wailing of the injured men.” Her eyes filled with tears as she broke off, holding her hands over her ears as though to cut off the sounds.

  Senna put down her beaker, and hugged the girl, understanding perfectly what she was going through.

  Her connection to her husband must be strong and, like Senna, her dream-self was somehow being transported to the battlefield.

  “Did you see Dennon? Or Jarl?”

  Although she’d spoken quietly, her questions were sufficient to make Marena jump with a start.

  “What do you mean? How could you know? What’s happening to me?”

  Senna hugged her as she explained about her own dreams and they compared their experiences, building a picture of what had gone on. No matter how unlikely, the fact they’d both seen the identical sequence of events meant a strong likelihood the band had been ambushed and both men injured.

  Seeing the shock in the young woman’s face, Senna became firm. “This does not mean either of them are anything more than injured. For all we know, they could be making their way back here now.”

  “I want to believe you, but…”

  “You would rather believe them dead? Stop that thinking right now. This is important, Marena, for you are very powerful. Every time your mind strays to thinking of Dennon, you must see him as whole and well and here. Surround him with loving energy and tell him how happy you are to see him.” She took hold of the girl’s hands, squeezing them to impress upon her the significance of this point.

  “I cannot emphasise enough that you must speak to him as though he’s already here. Do not say you will be happy to see him, but that you are.”

  “I understand. I am happy to see you, Dennon. I love you and I am glad you are here with me, safe and sound.”

  “Perfect. Try to remember and use those exact words. Good girl. Now, I believe you are to make the first course for our Freya-Share. Would you like some help to do that?”

  “No, thank you. I have already made the turkey and beef pasties, and the onion gravy is simmering in the pot.”

  “Mmm. I wondered what that delicious smell could be. I am looking forward to this. Try to keep yourself occupied, but not with chores; this is Freya day, after all. Go and visit your neighbours; I’m sure they would be pleased to see your latest little one.”

  “Is it not too soon to take her out of the house? I can’t quite remember.”

  “Not at all. Lyran firmly believed a new-born should get to taste fresh air and feel the sun on his skin as soon as possible.”

  “What if it rains?”

  “He said as long as it was not raining so hard the babe would get soaked through to the skin, any weather would do, even if snow lay on the ground.”

  She nodded. “That’s just the tonic I need. I’ve been feeling trapped in the house all day with nothing but my worries.”

  “That’s settled, then. I’ll see you later for the Freya-Share.”

  It was a completely different matter at Taron‘s house. As she arrived, he was preparing a wheeled cradle, made by his own fair hands, for Christian’s first excursion out of the house.

  When she finished her examinations of mother and babe, he approached, looking a little concerned. “I hope you do not think I am trying to move things along too quickly.” He gestured at the princely carriage. “We would not use this until you had given it your blessing, however, I wanted to see how it would work on the soft ground.”

  Senna thought how much Marena would benefit from such an item, without a husband to support her on the slippery ground. But that was a matter for a different day. “I think Christian is very lucky to have such wonderful parents who are able to provide him with everything he needs. It seems to me as though my presence here is not required. You have both taken to parenthood a
s though you have had many years of experience. I’m so impressed and happy for you both.”

  “Thank you for saying that, it means a lot to us. We value your opinion in the highest regard.”

  Lareeta nodded, keen to press the point. “And if ever there is anything we can do for you in return, please let us know and we will come to your aid immediately.”

  Senna hugged her, once again leaving the house filled to the brim with joy, which she happily exchanged with everyone she met.

  One of the nicest parts of the day was the way people went out of their way to do something helpful for their neighbours, especially the elderly ones. Every good deed was done with “The Grace of our Lady of Love,” and nothing was accepted in return except a smile and a blessing. She dallied for a good hour with her neighbour, rolling out the pastry for the goat’s cheese and vegetable tartlets the woman made for her Freya-Share.

  As they baked, Senna asked where the custom originated.

  The woman sipped her brew and pondered. “I’m not sure as I know. It’s been a happening for as long as I remembers. I thinks it may’ve started when grannie was a bairn.”

  “Maybe after a particularly bad harvest?”

  “Maybees the second time, yes. Now as you comes to mention it. But the first time, I thinks it was after the farmers lost their livestocks to a nasty plague.”

  Senna struggled to follow the woman’s quaint turn of phrase. “So the ones who had plenty, shared with those who had none.”

  “Aye. But it was such a triumph; they held it several years after.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful event.”

  “Indeed. I remembers many years when everyone in the village shared dishes in the hall.” She smacked her lips at the memory.

  “But it got too big, and there was such a press, we couldn’t all fit.” Her gaze dimmed like a cloud veiling the sun. “So families resolved to have smaller gatherings with just three or four households.” She shrugged. “And now you sees how it is.”