“Arrin-ken? Well, yes, the Dark Judge is a nightmare, and we in the Riverland are stuck with him. It isn’t just being blinded that’s driven him insane, either. It’s his inability to punish the guilty unless they come within his range and break certain rules.”
“You see? What good is the past? All the priests’ talk, all these millennia, about our divine destiny . . . it doesn’t work. It never did.”
“And never will, you think.”
Char jumped up and began to pace. “Why should we pin all of our hopes, our future, on fairytales, on failure?”
“But you wish with all of your heart that we could.”
He stopped, glaring. “Haven’t you been listening to me? All that mystery, all that glamour, the beauty of an old song, the banners of our honored dead . . . they are a trap, a snare. How dare you try to put our necks back into that noose?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jame, and meant it. “It’s very hard to keep faith when everything militates against it. I won’t tell you what you should or shouldn’t believe. Perhaps, after all, your reality is different from mine.”
“But you exist! And . . . and . . . you shouldn’t.”
“Well, I’m not going to make a sound like a hoop and roll away.”
Char kicked at a stone. “Now you’re laughing at me.”
“Truly, I’m not. Much. These are hard times in which to live, whatever one believes. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I and the Dark Judge are both relics of the past, of no use today. But we are what we are.”
“Ah,” he said in disgust, and retreated to his bed-roll. “Be whatever you like.”
Jame rolled up in her own blankets with a sigh, then unrolled enough for Jorin to burrow in beside her. She had brought Char with her in part so that he could bear news of her doings back to the keep, which had been kept too long in the dark. But she had also wanted to see his reaction.
So far, not good.
And they hadn’t even gotten around to discussing the Earth Wife.
III
“WHAT IN PERIMAL’S NAME is that?” Char asked, breaking a long silence.
It was twilight on the next day, back on the River Road, which they had rejoined in the late afternoon. By the terrain, Jame guessed that they had made less progress than she had hoped, and wondered if the Dark Judge had somehow impeded them. Such spite would be like him. A subdued Lyra had maintained a welcome silence. Char, too, had been quiet. Bereft of his mount, unwilling to ride a cow, although Bene trod close behind him breathing wetly, affectionately, down the back of his neck, this time it was he who had been reduced to walking.
Ahead of them, a black figure hung from a tree, its feet just brushing the weeds sprung up between the stones of the River Road. A breeze caught it and it turned slowly, warily, as if only just aware of their presence.
“That’s a watch-weirdling,” said Jame. “One of the Merikit dead. Alive or otherwise, all members serve the community. This one detects alien metal, such as our tack and weapons.”
“But it’s . . . it’s . . .”
“A corpse, yes. Sealed with wax in a suit of boiled leather. Note the mouth and nostrils, left open to catch our scent.”
“I so note,” said Char, looking rather sick. To him, of course, the unburnt dead were an abomination.
Jame touched the swinging figure to steady it.
“Kinsman,” she said in Merikit. “I am your sister-brother, returned. Let us pass. There, now, Char. You see?”
“I do—although what, you tell me.”
Jame snorted. “Such faith.”
They continued. Kithorn’s lower ward was contained by a hedge of overgrown cloud-of-thorn bushes, whose three-inch spikes reached out as if to detain those who passed. Here was the gatehouse. Up the road lay the keep itself, a desolate ruin. Blue flames flared in its courtyard.
Jame slowed, staring. She should have remembered.
“What?” said Char.
“Off the road. Now.”
They moved into the undergrowth opposite Kithorn, except for Bene, who stopped to graze on the verge.
BOOM-Wah-wah . . .
Drums, coming down the road from the Merikit village. Torches cast light and dancing shadows in the darkening hollows of the hills.
BOOM-Wah-wah, BOOM!
“I’m a fool,” said Jame.
Char gave her a sideways glance. “That I already knew. Why this time?”
“I was so preoccupied with Tagmeth that I forgot the Merikit calendar. This is the sixty-sixth of Summer. The solstice.”
Ching . . .
Bells approached, many of them, jangling in unison.
An old, half-naked man trotted down the road toward them. Breasts made of goat udders swung under loose, gray hair, over tattooed skin smeared white with ash. The chimes strapped to his ankles rang shrilly with every step.
Ching, ching . . .
Behind him, in single file, came a strange procession: first, the padded parody of a woman, then another ash-smeared elder, then a youth festooned with dripping weeds, another elder, a hairy man aflutter with black feathers, another elder.
Ching, ching, ching . . . went the little bells attached to the old men’s feet.
Others followed, lit by torch-bearers. Two were young men, one grim-faced, wearing red britches, the other bright-eyed and eager, clad in green. On their heels stalked a big figure muffled in a black cloak. After him came the rest of the Merikit males, men first, then boys hanging back as if to escape notice but chattering excitedly among themselves like a flock of sparrows.
Boom! went the drums that brought up the rear. BOOM-Wah-wah, BOOM!
Lyra fairly hopped with excitement, creating her own little storm of agitation among the leaves. “Oh, let’s join them!”
Jame held her down. “Quiet.”
They had seen Bene. A man separated from the others, cast a rope around her neck, and started to lead her back toward the village. This time, Char nearly jumped up.
“They’re stealing her!” he protested as Jame restrained him.
“Of course they are, but we’ll get her back. I promise.”
When the procession had turned under the guardhouse and gone up the road to Kithorn, the travelers emerged. Frightened by the noise, Jorin kept close to Jame’s heels. Death’s-head and Bel, however, had slipped away, presumably until they were needed again.
The road led north, twisting between hillocks and hollows, until the Merikit village came into sight, perching on top of a hill between the confluence of the Silver and one of its tributaries. On the hill’s summit was a large, round structure with a thatched roof. Below, a wooden palisade defended the settlement’s lower margin. Firelight flared up against the sharpened posts under a dome of darkening sky, faintly freckled with stars. From within came the babble of many excited voices. It occurred to Jame that she had no idea what the women did while their menfolk were off prancing before their gods in Kithorn’s courtyard. Perhaps tonight she would find out.
They crossed the Silver and climbed the hill to the village gate, which stood open. Inside, plank walks wound between many small hillocks on top of which were neat pocket gardens, or grazing goats, or sometimes, thanks to a broken fence, both. Smoke trickled up out of roof holes. Light welled out of the half-sunken doorways of lodges, and the savory smell of cooking rose. Lyra’s stomach growled. Jorin’s nose twitched.
Two girls bolted up onto the boardwalk from below.
“Favorite, Favorite!” they squealed with delight and threw themselves into Jame’s arms.
Two adults followed them up the steps, one blonde and plump, the other dark and tall.
“Back at last, are you?” The latter gave her a gap-toothed grin and a clap on the shoulder. “It’s about time.”
“Hello, Da. I got tired of being hot.”
“I hear it’s always like that, down south,” said the other, enveloping Jame in a cushiony hug. “And they have never seen snow? Amazing. Unnatural.”
“What are the
y talking about?” hissed Char. Of course, he didn’t understand Merikit.
“The weather. Hello, Ma. What’s going on?”
Closer to the heart of the village, torches bobbed over figures bustling back and forth. A bonfire roared up toward the kindling stars, greeted by cheers.
“Women’s mysteries,” said Ma with a grin. “Even the boys are gone, some to Kithorn, others off to play games of their own in the hills.”
“Where does that leave you and me?” Jame asked Da.
“On special occasions, Gran Cyd lets me turn my coat. You were the Favorite, but she may well grant you the same privilege.”
Jame nodded toward Char. “And my friend?”
“Ask Gran. If she says no, though, expect to see him driven out in a hail of kitchenware.”
Da and Ma set out down the walk, holding hands, their twins bouncing before them. The three Kencyr followed, Lyra eagerly, Char with trepidation.
“The tall one is a woman, isn’t she?” Char asked, speaking softly.
“She is, but a man by choice.”
“And they have children?”
“Yes. Merikit mothers name the fathers of their babies as they please. The offspring and all other property belong to them. Ma is the lodge-wyf. Da is her housebond.”
“Oh.”
The village women were gathered around the clear space before Gran Cyd’s lodge. Some stood on nearby hillocks for a better view. The rest crowded the walk and the margins of the open arc. The babble of cheerful voices broke off and everyone began to clap.
The lodge door had opened. A woman emerged from under the lintel, between posts glowing with gold and silver inlay. The mouths of the imus carved along the outer wall seemed to gape and sigh in welcome:
. . . ahhhh . . .
Firelight set embers aglow in her long red hair. Her face, when she turned it upward to smile at her audience, was broad and white across the forehead, set with smoky green eyes that smoldered even in shadow. As she mounted the steps, she seemed to rise out of the very earth, immortal in stature. Her mantle and tunic rustled with gold thread as she moved. More gold gleamed in torques twisted around her neck, bare arms, and waist.
Her smile deepened when she saw Jame. The women parted between them, still clapping and grinning. They embraced. The Merikit queen being a good head and a half taller than the Kencyr, Jame’s face was pressed between the other’s generous breasts. They smelt of sweet smoke and warm milk.
“Still skinny,” said Gran Cyd, breaking off to regard her at arms’ length. “You don’t eat enough, child.”
Jame grimaced. “Who has time? These are my companions, who seek your hospitality.”
“Welcome, daughter,” the Merikit queen said to Lyra, who was staring at her in open-mouthed awe. “Stay as long as you wish. As for you . . .”
Her gaze shifted to Char, who glared back. Jame guessed that he too was overwhelmed, as well he might be, but it wasn’t in his nature to show it.
“Now, what shall we do with you? My women, what do you suggest?”
“He is a man,” some called. “Drive him out!”
“A man, but no Merikit,” cried someone else.
“Then turn his coat!” That, surely, was Da. “Make him a woman!”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“So be it,” said Gran Cyd with a smile.
They descended on Char, who flinched back, his hand dropping to his knife. Jame gripped his wrist. With an effort, he held himself still.
“It’s all right,” she said in his ear. “I think.”
Various women divested themselves of whatever clothing they considered most feminine. One supplied a skirt spangled with silver beads, another a loose blouse, a third something fetching in pale pink leather. Char gritted his teeth as they stripped off his outer garments and re-clothed him. The deed done, they retreated. He glared down at his new finery and irritably tugged up the skirt, which had settled low on his narrow hips.
“You can’t tell anyone anything about what happens here,” Jame warned him.
He spat hair-ribbons out of his mouth and shot her a baleful glance. “D’you think that likely?”
“Hush. It’s beginning.”
Hands reached down and drew the Kencyr up onto a lodge roof. As they settled, someone started to tap a small drum, another to play the pipes. An eldritch skirl of music rose to greet the full moon, only just heaving itself over the shoulders of the eastern Snowthorns, pale against the fire’s flare.
Flames leaped. A wizened, veiled figure now sat cross-legged before the conflagration, although no one had seen her arrive. Her eyes glowed like holes punched through her skull to the fire beyond.
“Now attend,” she said in a thin, oddly familiar voice, “and I will tell you a tale of your gods, the Four, for I am Story-teller, and every hearth is my shrine.”
Jame stirred.
“Do you know her?” Lyra whispered.
“Yes. That’s Granny Sit-by-the-fire, from the Southern Wastes. Strange to find her here. Or perhaps not.”
“Long, long ago, there was a great city, and in it lived a small girl.”
Someone had handed Gran Cyr a sack. Out of it she drew rag dolls which she tossed at random into the crowd. Hands reached up to snatch them out of the air. Women scurried down into the open.
“Now, you may not know what a city is. Think of many, many people living on top of each other. Oh, the noise! The confusion! Why, you might not even know who dwelt next to you, or her children, or her lovers.”
Some younger women hesitated, but their elders had mimed this mystery many times before. They piled on top of each other while the audience improvised a babble of voices punctuated by made-up protests:
“Your elbow is in my ear!” “Who is that on top of me with a pole?” “Someone forgot to wear her drawers.”
“Hah’rum!” Granny cleared her throat, spitting out live embers. “A small girl, I say.”
To the right, the crowd parted and a tawny-haired figure was thrust into the open.
“That’s Prid,” Jame said to Lyra. “I hope you two will be friends.”
“Oh, so pretty she was, so innocent.”
The women hooted. Prid made a face. Jame wondered how the Merikit girl had been getting along with Hatch, the current reluctant Favorite, who had loved her since childhood. After all, he had been the male fertility figure for the entire village for the past year as she, Jame, had been before him.
“Many suitors had she, but scorned them all.”
The women played up to Prid. Some spread hands as if offering her rich goods or lascivious attentions. Others rubbed against her like cats in heat until she slapped them away.
“At last one came, finer than all the rest.”
Char sat up straight. “Those are my clothes!”
The woman wearing them swaggered across the clearing to cat-calls from the audience. It was Ma. Judging by her round, bulging bottom, Char would be lucky to get his pants back unsplit.
“He dazzled her, and she took him.”
Prid and Ma disappeared down the steps to Gran Cyd’s lodge. As the door closed, on-lookers began enthusiastically to groan and pant. Lyra looked puzzled. Char blushed.
The door opened again and Prid slipped out, greeted by applause. She threw her ragdoll to Gran Cyd. More poppets flew as the next round of celebrants was chosen. Prid wriggled through the crowd and threw herself into Jame’s arms.
“Housebond! At last!”
“Hello, Prid. This is Lyra. Lyra, this is my lodge-wyf, Prid.”
“Oh,” said Lyra, staring.
“Believe it or not,” said Jame, “I can explain.”
“Hah’rum! Thereafter, many lovers she took and many housebonds, but the latter one at a time, as was the custom at that time, in that place.”
Women passed before Gran Cyd, preening, flirting, while, one finger to her lips, she made a droll show of sizing them up.
“Observe my glorious clothes!” called someone on th
e sidelines, and several of the parading women flared their skirts.
“Observe my rich, fair hair!”
An elder ruffled her short, graying locks until they stood up like the down on a thistle.
“Look at my great big . . .”
“Oh, oh . . . !” others cried, convulsed with laughter.
One woman cupped her hands at her crotch as if supporting a considerable weight and swayed her hips. A second laced her fingers higher. A third made as if to cradle something thick and heavy to her bosom. Its supposed weight caused her to totter back and forth.
Char made a choking sound. When Jame glanced sideways at him, she saw that he was trying to swallow laughter, perhaps because Gran Cyd had produced an imaginary tape and was solemnly measuring each presented imaginary member. She had forgotten that the Kendar were matrilineal. Char had probably grown up with a healthy respect for large, strong women.
“Years passed. She grew rich, for each housebond gifted her with wealth and more she added by her own labors. Then one day in the market she saw a beautiful young man, and fell in love, and courted him.”
Someone threw Jame a doll. She went down, unsure what to do, but the onlookers prompted her and Gran Cyd began to flirt. Jame’s movements in response shifted into dance, miming curiosity and attraction, blending into courtship.
Careful, careful . . . she thought.
This wasn’t the Res aB’tyrr and these no idle tavern-goers come in for an evening’s entertainment, not guessing that they risked their souls. Much less was it the throbbing heart of a Kencyr temple, although, now that she was on sacred ground, she felt power stir around her.
She and Gran Cyd danced. For a large woman, the Merikit queen was surprisingly agile. She didn’t know the Senetha, but followed Jame as if by instinct through many of its intricacies, bursting into laughter when her skills failed her. Drum and pipe began again to play.
Tap, tap, tap . . .
Feet hit the ground in time to the rhythm, both in the clearing and in its margins.
The pipes lifted in a swirl of sound that traced the fire’s ascending sparks and the dancers spun to it, faster and faster, until suddenly they wound into each other’s arms and stopped.
The Gates of Tagmeth (Chronicles of the Kencyrath Book 8) Page 13
