Sisters in Fantasy

by Edited by Susan Shwartz

  “My lady,” he said as they halted in confusion. “This is no place for you.”

  Almadis’s hand went to Meg’s arm. “Sir, if you come to give protection, that is well. But this much I shall do for myself, see an innocent woman free of any wrong—”

  “You give me no choice then—” He snapped his fingers, and his men moved in, he a stride ahead plainly aiming to reach Almadis himself.

  “Sir Knight,” Almadis’s hand was on her breast, and under it the moon token was warm. “I come not at your demand or that of any man, thank the Lady, save at a wish which is my own.”

  Otger’s twisted mouth was a grimace of hate, and he lunged.

  Only—

  From the staff Meg held, there blazed a burst of rainbow-hued light. Otger and those with him cried out, raising their hands to their eyes and stumbled back. From behind Almadis and Meg moved Mors and Nid, the ancient horse, whose head was now raised, and those three pushed in among the guard, shouldering aside men who wavered and flailed out blindly.

  Then Almadis was at the gate, and her hands were raised to the bar there. Beside her was the scholar, and with more force than either of them came Forina. So did the barrier to the freedom without fall. And they came out into the crisp wind without the walls, the very momentum of their efforts carrying them into the mouth of the Way Wind road.

  There were cries behind them, and the screeching of voices, harsh and hurting. Almadis looked behind. All their strangely constituted party had won through the gates, the rear guard walking backward. Urgell and Osono had both drawn steel, and the smith held his hammer at ready. There were improvised clubs, a dagger or two, Ruddy’s pike, but none were bloodied. Urgell and Ruddy, the smith beside them, slammed the gates fast.

  Almadis could still hear the shouting of Otger, knew that they had perhaps only moments before they would be overwhelmed by those who were ready for a hunt.

  Meg swung up her staff. There was no wide burst of light this time—rather a ray as straight as a sword blade. It crisscrossed the air before them, leaving behind a shimmer of light the width of the road, near as high as the wall behind them.

  As she lowered her staff, she raised her other hand in salute to that shimmer, as if there waited behind it someone or thing she held in honor.

  Then she spoke, and, though she did not shout, her words cried easily over the clamor behind them.

  “Here is the Gate of Touching. The choice now lies with you all. There will be no hindrance for those going forward. And if you would go back, you shall find those behind will accept you again as you are.

  “Those who come four-footed are comrades—the choice being theirs also. For what lies beyond accepts all life of equal worth. The comradeship of heart is enough.

  “The choice is yours, so mote it be!”

  She stood a little aside to give room, and Tod and Tay, laying hands once more to Nid’s horns, went into the light. Behind them, his hand on the old horse’s neck, the laborer trod, head up and firmly. Almadis stood beside Meg and watched them pass. None of them looked to her or Meg, it was as if they were drawn to something so great they had no longer only any knowledge of themselves, only of it.

  At last there were those of the rear guard. Osono and Vill did not glance toward her. But Urgell, whose sword was once more within its sheath, dropped behind. Somehow her gaze was willed to meet his. The leaf Meg had given him was set in his battered helm as a plume, the plume that a leader might wear to some victory.

  Almadis stirred. She stepped forward, to lay her hand on the one he held out to her as if they would tread some formal pattern which was long woven into being.

  Meg steadied Kaska’s basket on her hip, and looked up to the glimmer as Castellan’s daughter and mercenary disappeared.

  “Is it well-done, Lady?”

  “It is well-done, dear daughter. So mote it be!”

  With staff and basket held steady, Meg went forward, and when she passed the gate of light it vanished. The Way lay open once again to the scouring of the wind.

  Healer

  Josepha Sherman

  “Do these stories have to have a female protagonist?” I can’t tell you how many times I was asked that question. It’s every bit as much a stereotype as the ones surrounding fantasy, science fiction, or the men and women who write it.

  Archaeologist, folklorist, and novelist Josepha Sherman didn’t bother with that question, being busy with other, more pressing ones.

  In this story of courage and initiation, Josepha moves out of the area of Russian folklore, in which she has made a name for herself, and into the realm of shamans whom she asks: Is there life beyond power? Dr. Faustus said no, and traded life and soul for a dream of magic.

  In this story, the author offers her healer Faustus’s choice: the power of love, or the love of power. Who says a man can’t choose right? Not Josepha Sherman.

  The night had been wet and chill with the promise of winter, and as Osheoan crept through the narrow entrance of his small, solitary lodge, body still and mind weary from a broken, troubled sleep, the morning air was still dank enough to make him shiver and grab his fur robe about himself. As he moved, the little Power signs of shell and bone and metal woven into it jangled shrilly together. At the high, thin sound, folk turned briefly to look at him, tensing or smiling or nodding politely according to their natures. Osheoan, Spirit-Speaker of this, the Wind Bird Clan, drew himself up to his full lean height in slightly self-conscious pride.

  Ohe, yes, the people still did show him the respect due one who spoke with spirits. Even if he had produced no miracles in these many years, nothing more than the small marvels of healing torn flesh or broken bones.

  Not, thought Osheoan wryly, that there was anything wrong in minor healings: seeing young Ashewan walking without a limp on the leg he had splinted or plump Esewa cuddling her latest baby, cured of the nagging cough that had threatened to drain the flesh from her. When Osheoan, then little more than a boy, had first been struck by Power, his initial feeling— aside from sheer terror at being set aside from the norm—had been delight that now he could do something to help those in pain.

  Pride had come later.

  Osheoan put aside thoughts of his troubled sleep (no messages there, no hidden dream-warnings), and made his circuit of the lodges, pleased to find no injuries, no illness. Hunters returning to the lodges, luck charms jingling from robes and braided hair, antelope or strings of hares borne on their backs, paused beneath their burdens to dip their heads in courtesy. Women weaving the tribal blankets or gathering herbs and roots, black hair and copper ornaments glinting in the sun, took a moment to touch hand to heart when he passed, a tall, quiet shadow in Spirit-Speaker’s gray. And Osheoan admitted, deep within himself, that the respect shown him was sweet, still sweet.

  Sweetness with a faintly bitter undertaste: secret shame, secret sorrow.

  No one saw Osheoan’s sudden flinch, no one saw him clench his teeth against unwelcome memories. Had the Power ever been real? Once, surely, he’d been that young, earnest boy, once he’d been believing. Once he had walked with spirits (ah, or had those been nothing more than waking dreams, forced on a boy dizzy from smoke and dazed by drums?), learned the true, deep way of healing. The way now closed to him.

  Once, too, he had loved: Seshawa. Gentle Seshawa with a wit like the sharpness of berry-tang beneath honey. Seshawa of the laughing eyes and heart: she, his wife, his own.

  Seshawa, who had died in birthing, for all her husband’s Power, leaving a son, Mikasha, and an empty, bitter man.

  Osheoan gave a silent, humorless laugh. Being Spirit-Speaker was still sweet, yes. And so he still went through the trappings of Power, the rituals that kept the others of the clan in awe of him. He still healed. But no one save he knew no spirits were roused by those rituals, that the healing was of simple herbs and time, nothing more. Fortunate, fortunate, that the Wind Bird Clan was a healthy one, that there had been no devastating illnesses or wounds, nothing to deeply ha
rm them and destroy him. The day would come, though; the thought of it lingered, quivering, just at the back of his mind. Someday disaster would— must—strike, and he, the so-mighty Spirit-Speaker, would try, and fail, and be revealed as false.

  Osheoan stirred, impatient with himself. Yes, the Power had spilled away from him with Seshawa’s death (if, indeed, he’d ever truly borne it) and with it, belief in the gods. But life continued, the here, the now, the real.

  The loneliness—

  No. Enough self-pity.

  Osheoan knew he’d hidden his loss of Power well. No one suspected, not even his son. Least of all his son, handsome Mikasha, with his father’s height and mother’s laughing eyes. Osheoan winced, remembering the boy who had been, face still pudgy with childishness but ablaze with near-adult eagerness, staring fiercely up at him, asking, “Why won’t you teach me? I’m your son, your blood. Why can’t I be your apprentice?”

  How could he answer that fierceness? Because I’m a sham. A liar, with nothing to teach you. No, no, he had never said that, he had forced the blame onto Mikasha instead, putting the boy off with stories, telling him at first, year after year, “Later. You are still too young.” Then, when at last Mikasha was old enough to know his father lied, Osheoan had heard himself speak the cruelest lie of all: “I cannot teach you. It would be too dangerous, impossible. I’m afraid you have no gift for Power at all.”

  And in lying to his son, he’d lied to himself as well, insisting, The boy will forget what he cannot have. He will make himself some bright new life as warrior or wise man. He has no need of Power.

  Osheoan stared bleakly out past the circle of lodges, blindly out to the vast, cold plains. How could it have come to this? He had never thought himself a coward, had undergone the rites of manhood and the harsher, grimmer rituals of Power—scarring mind instead of merely body—without a qualm. He had risked the very essence that was Osheoan without hesitation. Yet, when a handful of words would have put Mi-kasha’s mind at ease—Mikasha, his son!—fear had shaken his heart, stopped his tongue. Fear of losing the last trace of what he’d been, the pride, the awe if not the reality of Power.

  He’d kept silent. And by that silence, Osheoan knew he had taught his son all too well: bitterness at what the boy could only think his own fault, his own inner shortcomings. He had taught Mikasha unhappiness.

  And in the end, he had driven his son away. Once the boy had become adult, passing the rituals of manhood without a word to his father, Mikasha had quietly abandoned his home, his clan, setting out to hunt for his own purpose in being.

  A sudden chill gust of wind swept wet off the plains, and Osheoan shivered. “Mikasha,” he murmured, aching. “Oh, my son…”

  His dreams had been about the boy, full of trouble, of pain…

  But dreams held no secret messages, not for him, not anymore.

  Osheoan started, jarred out of his inner darkness by shouting. There on the flat horizon stumbled a lone figure, staggering its way toward the lodge circle. Warriors snatched up their spears, staring, alert as wolves.

  “One man alone hardly constitutes a threat,” Osheoan said mildly. “Why not go out there and see what he wants?”

  The warriors dipped their spears in compliance. Some of them raced out from the lodges, using the swift, loose-limbed, ground-devouring jog that could wear down a running antelope. Osheoan, watching, suffered a moment’s doubt. He’d judged wisely, hadn’t he? Surely one man couldn’t be an enemy, not alone. And plainly injured, judging from that hesitant gait.

  Injured? Or ill?

  Oh, you idiot! What if he’s bringing disease toward the lodges?

  Osheoan snatched up his curing bundle and started after the men, determined to stop the stranger before he got too near. But then Osheoan froze, staring, feeling his heart leap painfully.

  “Mikasha… ?” It was a wisp of sound.

  Taller now, a man’s body, no longer a boy, but—

  “Mikasha!”

  Osheoan didn’t remember breaking into a run. He knew only that his son was here, his son had returned, and when Mikasha, face drawn and painfully thin, sagged suddenly, eyes closing, it was his father who caught him and eased him gently to the ground. Grey robe, Osheoan noted abstractedly, vaguely surprised, Spirit-Speaker’s robe, though no Spirit-Speaker’s ornaments, not yet, only the plain spirals of bone marking an apprentice. That Mikasha should be wearing them would mean something later, he knew it, something painful, but right now Osheoan could focus only on the sweetly stale smell of illness hovering about his son, the stain of old blood across Mikasha’s chest.

  With the aid of the wary, respectful warriors, Osheoan brought his son home, had him laid gently down on the Spirit-Speaker’s own bed of soft furs. Staring down at Mikasha’s thin, still face with its lines of suffering, remembering the plump, joyous little boy now forever lost, Osheoan blindly waved the warriors away. Alone with Mikasha, he knelt by his son’s side, delicately peeling back the worn, stained robe, dreading what he might find.

  The breath hissed between his teeth as he inhaled in shock. Ohe, bad.

  A fiery weal cut across Mikasha’s chest, the flesh on either side swollen and puffy, streaked with sullen red: the scar of what would have been a jagged wound, such as stone dagger might make (though who would deliberately harm a Spirit-Speaker?), or perhaps a miscast splinter of metal shattering at the cooling. Osheoan reached out to gently trace its length, then drew his hand back, alarmed at the fever heat he’d felt. This was no fresh injury. The skin had had time to close over it, deceptively, dangerously imitating true healing, hiding the sickness festering within, the slow, sure death.

  Osheoan started, suddenly realizing that Mikasha was awake and watching him from fever-glazed eyes.

  “Lie still,” Osheoan murmured. “I… will do what I can.”

  “I thought the wound had healed.” It was the driest whisper of sound. “Shattered… knife shattered in the ritual… Power burst free…”

  “What were you doing toying with Power?” Osheoan heard his voice come out too harsh, too sharp, but couldn’t stop himself from babbling on. “I told you, you have no Gift”—flinching inwardly at the familiar lie.

  Mikasha stirred restlessly. “No. You were wrong. Too close to me, maybe. Power is there, burning… Had to learn to use it.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Found another Spirit-Speaker. Torik of the White Snake Clan… Said he would teach me, even if I was Wind Bird… not Snake…”

  Mikasha’s eyes closed. “Enough,” Osheoan said softly. “Rest.”

  But his son continued, forcing out the words, “Hadn’t taught me healing, though. Not Power healing. No time, before he… before the knife broke… killed him, hurt me. White Snake Clan tried to kill me, too. But I escaped.” The feverish eyes snapped open, staring at Osheoan. “Came to Clan summer grounds, hoped lodges would still be here… Where else could I go? Father…”

  His eyes closed again, voice trailing into silence. His thin form seemed to collapse in on itself, and Osheoan cried in sudden terror, “Mikasha?” then sighed in relief to see that his son still breathed. Grimly, the man forced himself under control and bent to examine the wound again, desperate for some reason for hope.

  The wound had slashed across Mikasha’s ribs and down, though how deep it had cut into the flesh, he couldn’t tell by mere sight. It might have come perilously close to a lung… But Mikasha showed none of the terrifying blood froth on his lips that would mean a death wound. Still, who knew what other damage might have been done within?

  And Osheoan’s mind answered him cruelly, A Spirit-Speaker would know.

  A true Spirit-Speaker. Not a Sham. The Power would stir within such a one and tell him what to do. The Power would guide his hand and heart, help him draw out the poison and heal the sick flesh…

  “Power,” Osheoan muttered.

  Here was the heart of his fear, come before him at last: the one patient he might not aid by simple herbs, the one patient who, by dying, was
going to reveal him as an imposter— And that one was his son, his son…

  And what are you going to do? Osheoan’s mind asked relentlessly. Let Mikasha die? All because you are afraid?

  “No.”

  At least he still did have his basic knowledge of healing. It… must be enough.

  But as Osheoan bent over his son’s body, knife in hand, prepared to reopen the wound and let the poison drain, he was shaken by a spasm of pure terror. If only he knew exactly where to cut! What if his hand slipped? What if he cut too deeply, or nicked one of the vital, blood-carrying vessels? Other men could call on the gods for help, but for him, the disbeliever, there was nothing, no one. And suddenly he could have wept like a child for his loneliness. Suddenly he ached in every twist of his being for belief, for any sign at all that he was not alone.

  Please, oh please, help me.

  “Now, why should we?”

  Osheoan twisted wildly about. There in the lodge was… a fox, nothing more than one of the scrawny, silvery-furred foxes, stolen in from the plains. The man cried out as much in loss as in anger, and looked for something to hurl at the little scavenger.

  “So quick to be rid of me?”

  The non-voice tickled his mind. Osheoan froze, staring, slowly realizing what he faced. “You… can’t be…”

  “Can’t I?” The fox shook itself and trotted forward a few deft paces, coming to a stop just out of his reach. “Not elegant enough for you? You’d prefer an eagle, maybe, all talons and pride?” Mocking amber eyes glanced up at him. “Mm, yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sorry. I’m all you get.”

  “I’m not—I mean—You can’t be here,” Osheoan told the spirit-animal flatly. “Not now. Not after all this time.”

  “Why not?” The fox sat without ceremony and began to nibble at its hind leg like a dog after a flea. “Ah,” it said, satisfied, “got him.” It looked up at Osheoan across its outstretched leg, gaze suddenly disconcertingly steady. “Seems to me, it’s you to blame for ‘all this time,” not us.“