by Jean Johnson
“Yes?” Siinar asked Tava when she hesitated.
“Do you know where my books are? At least some of them?” she asked, glancing between the two men. “This maiden’s geome thing is, well . . . I don’t mean to insult your customs, but . . .” At the encouraging look from father and son, she admitted, “It’s boring. At night. There is only so much I can sleep at a stretch, and there’s no one to talk to and nothing to do, and even if it’s just one of my little books of poems, which I’ve read a hundred times before . . .”
Kodan’s brows rose sharply, as if suddenly realizing something. “Ah. I see. Wait here.”
Pushing to his feet, he left the tent, ducking out into the rain. Tava glanced at his father. Siinar shrugged.
“He’s probably fetching one of your books. Or he might be fetching one of his own. I believe he brought three on this trip.” The older Shifterai shook his head and tsked. “I don’t know where Kodan got his bookishness from. All the children of the Plains are taught to read and to write, but his mother prefers to work with numbers over words, and I prefer to work with my hands, just like my other son. The boy brought only two changes of clothes, one of which you see today and the other of which now has a hole in the back, and yet I know he made room for at least three books in his saddlebags!”
Amused by such a strange yet clearly fatherly rant, Tava wondered at how different Siinar was from her own father. And at how similar Kodan was to Varamon. Her father would rather have read a book than done a more mundane task, such as washing their laundry. So would she. The only way Tava and her father had managed to keep such a neat home was by the trick Varamon had taught her, a trick he had learned in his own youth. By promising themselves a good read if they did a good and quick job with their chores, those chores got done. Usually first thing in the day, which meant their evenings were free for reading and for discussing whatever they read.
But traveling like this, there was nothing to read and nothing to do. She couldn’t even discuss anything once the sun had set and she was packed off to the brightly painted hut-on-wheels that was the trader’s wagon. And though the gray, rainy sky seen through the smallish gap in the roof was still somewhat light, she would have to retire to the wagon all too soon, with only the pattering of rain and the memory of her supper for company.
At least the fish soup simmering in the large kettle on the grill smelled good, as did the grass-wrapped roots baking in the embers of the brazier. Watching the men working to cook, she was puzzled by the long, ropy lumps of dough they were shaping. With a little fat and some of the milk from her goats, along with some salt and what looked like fresh-picked, minced herbs, they could have made the flatbread they had made previous times, but instead they picked up the heavily floured, thickened ropes of dough and tucked it around the base of the large pot, draping it over the mesh of the grill in three curving segments.
The men who had worked the dough, including Kenyen, washed their hands at the wrought iron stand, but only by dipping their hands into the one basin. From the other one, they carefully scooped up water with a dipper, pouring the liquid over their lathered fingers into the first pan. After the third man washed up in this manner, the dirty water was taken outside, where she heard it being tossed off into the meadow grass, and the pan brought back. The water from the second pan was poured into the emptied one, along with a bit more from a bucket to fill it up, and fresh, clean water was poured into the second pan to replace it.
They must do that to ensure they have clean rinse water each time, she decided, thinking about it. It makes sense, since a little soap might drip from their lathered hands whenever they use the dipping cup. And of course they didn’t lay any tarps over that corner of the ground, which means any water that splashes free will soak straight into the ground. It’s also at the lowest point of the ground inside the tent, though they did pick the most even, bush-free patch of meadow they could find . . .
Looking up, she studied the spokes of the tent. It was not unlike a house, though her house had planks over the rafters, making an attic-space for storage. Although it didn’t have a fireplace, with that centermost, solid wooden cone sheltering the ventilation hole from the rain, the tent was warm and relatively smoke-free. The mid-ring was high enough that even the tallest of the shapeshifters didn’t have to worry about banging his head on the lightglobes hanging in their woven bags, though the edges of the tent roof were a little short right next to the latticework.
Of course, it’s possible that if they can make themselves taller, they can also make themselves shorter, she acknowledged, and thus avoid hitting their heads on the costly Artifacts. I wonder how they support their torsos when they grow themselves that tall? Maybe a second spine for stability and strengh?
The door opened, drawing her attention to the front of the geome. Kodan entered, his green tunic dark with rain, mostly across his broad shoulders. Held against his chest was a largish book, leather bound with a flap that could be tied shut. Bringing it to her, he checked it, brushed off a stray raindrop, and held it out to her.
“Here. This is a book on the plants of the Shifting Plains, what is poisonous, what is edible, and what is useful in other ways—it starts with the poisonous ones, so we can teach our children what to avoid, and goes all the way through to the seventeen kinds of grass and bush that can be made into cord, or even twisted into fuel for the fire, that sort of thing. The drawings are very good, and spell-copied straight from the original,” Kodan said. “I brought it along to show to some herb-traders in one of the cities west of here, describing what we can grow in bulk for sale. I thought it would be useful as well as entertaining for you to read.”
Pleased by his thoughtfulness, Tava smiled at him. Accepting the book, she cradled it in her lap. “Thank you. I will be very careful with your book.”
“You are a scribe, after all,” Kodan pointed out, smiling. “I have no fear on that matter.”
The trio of cooks were busy stirring the soup, rotating the roots, and turning the crescents of half-cooked dough. The others—those not patrolling outside in the rain or asleep behind the curtains—brought their own blankets over, folding them into cushions. Tava found herself motioned to stand and turn her chair one more time, this time putting her back to the brazier so that she faced an audience of eight or nine men.
“T-Tell us a s-s-story of your peop-ple,” Torei urged Tava, folding his legs and giving her an earnest, interested look. He braced his palms on the cushion between his crossed legs and leaned on his arms. “P-Pl-Please?”
Seeing so many men facing her, so many pairs of male eyes watching her, waiting for her to speak—wanting her to speak—was a very odd sensation. Mornai culture was such that if a woman wanted her opinion and thoughts shared, she either told them to her father, to her brother, or to her husband or son, who might share them with others, at his discretion. Only in the privacy of their home had Varamon encouraged his daughter to speak freely of her thoughts and opinions. Never mind ask her to tell stories.
Mind blank for a moment, she let her gaze fall to her lap. Tava saw the embroidered sleeves of her gown. It was a little dusty, though she had done her best to brush away the dirt that came with plucking turnips and beets from the ground. Two of her three summer-weight dresses had been kept readily available, along with a warmer wool gown and her nightdress, leaving her little choice of what to wear each day. Not that she had a lot of clothes, but it did remind her of a story regarding the River Goddess.
“A long time ago, there was no summer, no winter, no autumn, and no spring. All the days were mild, the rain fell lightly, the winds blew softly, and the sun frequently traded places with the clouds during the day, as did the moons with the clouds during the night. And Morna—the River Goddess—had only one dress to wear. It was clean and clear if you looked at it close, allowing you to see straight through to the bottom of the river, but from a distance, it was like a blue and green mirror, reflecting the bank, the trees, and even the sky.
&nbs
p; “But then one day, the Sun thought the clouds were hogging more of the sky than was their fair share, and so it chased the clouds back, shining bright and hot. The heat not only parched all of the animals; it also shrunk Morna’s dress, until the gravel and mud of Her shorelines began to show. Morna rebuked the Sun,” Tava told her odd, male audience, “saying it was not his place to touch Her clothes . . . and the Sun sulked and let the clouds come back.
“Now, the clouds were so joyful at no longer being burned out of the sky, they gathered so thickly and puffed up their sky-wool so large that they jostled and bumped into one another, until they jostled and bumped the rain right out of their wool and down onto the ground. It rained like this for several days, and as the land could hold only a little rain at any given time, most of that rain ran down to the river. In its eagerness to go downhill,” Tava continued, “the rainwater grabbed at the fallen leaves and the soil, dragging it along until it poured mud and debris all over Morna’s pretty dress. No longer was it clean and clear straight through to the riverbed, nor did it reflect as clearly as a mirror, and the rain itself roughened the smoothness of the now muddy brown fabric of Her gown until it couldn’t even reflect the light of day without great effort.
“Upset with the ruining of Her dress, Morna rebuked the clouds next. The clouds, being many in number and proud of their collective might, rebuked Her in turn,” she told the Shifterai men. “They rained more heavily, and She argued more strongly, until the men-clouds blew a strong wind that ruffled Her gown and chilled the air with their censure. They stole the warmth from Her gown, turning it gray and cloudy, and then stiffened the fabric straight into ice. Morna was trapped into stillness by the cold breath of the clouds, though She could still move and speak deep within Her dress. But She longed for Her freedom of movement and spoke prettily to the clouds, gentling their anger and agreeing with their claims of magnificence, until they were satisfied and scattered to find a place to rest.
“And when the sun came out, taking the place of the clouds, Morna spoke gently to him, too, coaxing him into forgiving her. The sun relented and shone brightly, softening Her cage and warming Her clothes until She flowed free again. Off in the distance, the clouds pouted and wept rain, that She should even speak with the one who had started the feud, but though the runoff from their wrung-out protest muddied Her gown once more, Morna patiently endured it, speaking gently to the clouds once again . . . and within a short while, the mud had either settled or flowed down to the sea at the hem of Her gown, and once more Her dress was bright and clear, and as beautiful as a mirror whenever it reflected the trees and the sky.
“This is the story of the River’s four seasons,” Tava explained. “The dress you see me wearing is the one I wore to the spring and autumn festivals; the brown is the mud that enriches our fields, and the blue and green zigzags represent the water running off the land. My dress for winter is gray, which is my best dress; it has snowflakes embroidered all over it. And my dress for summer—”
“—Is clear?” one of the men interjected hopefully. He was immediately smacked by at least four hands from the men seated nearest him, but the speaker merely rubbed his bruises and chuckled, unrepentant.
“My dress for the summer is blue,” Tava stressed, blushing. “Some of them are green, but I dyed mine blue.”
“It’s n-not very pr-pretty,” Torei told her, and was whacked by two more hands for his trouble. Rubbing the back of his head, he protested, “Well, it isn’t! It’s t-t-oo baggy, and sh-sh-shhe would l-look better in p-pink!”
That earned him several more hits, until the young man scrambled free, retreating beyond the reach of the others. One of the middle-aged men started to lengthen his arm, clearly intending to give Torei one last whap, but the youth hissed exactly like an upset cat would have, bared teeth and all. In fact, if he could have flattened his human ears, Tava was sure he would have done that, too. The older man shortened his limb back to normal, leaving Torei alone.
There was a bustle of activity around the brazier, and Tava found herself urged to stand and rotate her chair one more quarter turn. At her puzzled look, Kodan—the one adjusting her chair—leaned in close and murmured, “This is a trick the Shifterai play for our guests who have been out in the rain; we dry each of your four sides in turn.”
Kenyen reached up and whapped his brother on the leg with the back of his hand. “No courting her until she’s been with the priestesses, Brother.”
“I am not courting,” Kodan returned, giving his brother a mildly annoyed look. “I am merely instructing. And for that, I charge you with telling the next tale.”
“Not until the food’s been handed out,” Kenyen countered, nodding at the men still working to divide their meal.
Reseating herself in the chair, Tava was surprised to be handed the first bowl of fish soup and a bit of bread broken off one of the longish crescents. She murmured a puzzled thanks to the three. Women were never handed the first tastings during communal meals, down in the Valley; that went to the village Alders, the eldest of the men. She was even more puzzled to be given a bowl so small, it was more of a cup. Lifting her gaze to Kodan’s, she glanced between his eyes and her portion.
Kodan smiled, accepting a portion of baked root in a small bowl similar to hers and an equally small scrap of bread. “The size of your bowl ensures you’ll take the time to have seconds, and even thirds. You don’t retreat to the maiden’s geome—or to your wagon, in this case—until your supper is finished . . . which means you’ll be encouraged to eat very slowly, in many small portions.”
“Ah! I have the perfect tale for you!” Kenyen exclaimed, rubbing his hands together before reaching for the larger bowl one of the two remaining cooks offered to him. “It’s called The Maiden and the Whale, and it’s about a young woman who was having so much fun staying outside the geome each stormy night, she sought for a way to make sure her evening meals would never end . . .”
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SIX
Squinting, Kodan adjusted his eyesight to eagle sharpness and back, then glanced at the woman riding on the wagon bench next to him. She had braced her feet on the kickboard, the better to brace the book spread open in her lap. Deep in her reading as she was, it took him two nudges of his elbow against her arm to get her to look up at him. As soon as he had her attention, he nodded at the specks in the distance.
“Do you see those dots out there?” he asked.
Distracted from learning the different ways—beautifully illustrated, as promised—one could weave Shifterai-style baskets—Tava looked in the indicated direction. At first, she didn’t see anything as she scanned the horizon, then squinted a little, sharpening her eyesight. “Are those . . . tents?”
“Geomes,” he patiently corrected her. “Outlanders use tents. We use geomes. Except for the refreshing tents, or trench tents if you want to be derogatory about them.”
“Of which, I use the red ones, not the green ones,” Tava recited, dutifully remembering her lessons over the last ten days of travel.
“Correct.” Kodan checked to make sure the gently undulating grass held no immediate surprises to navigate around, then looked at her again. He smiled as he saw she was reading once again. “If you don’t stop reading that, you won’t have anything to read tonight.”
Tava looked up again. “I thought you said you’d get me another new book to read once we reached Family Tiger.”
Kodan grinned. The moment she had voiced her complaint about missing her books, he had known exactly how to reach her. His plan to seduce Tava’s attention through his collection of books was working; she couldn’t hide her anxiety at the thought of a new tome being delayed in reaching her eager hands.
“You’re not used to gauging distances on the Plains,” he told her. “We’re still about five hours from the encampment, and we have only two or so hours of daylight left today. We’ll reach Family Tiger tomorrow.”
“Five hours?” Tava asked, surprised. She squint
ed at the dots in the distance. “It’s that far away?”
“We actually have to detour to the west by about an hour, just to find the next stream to water the animals,” he told her. “They wouldn’t make it all the way to the Family without eating, drinking, and resting overnight anyway. Not without stressing them unnecessarily. And we Shifterai always . . . ?”
“. . . We always take care of our animals first,” Tava recited at the prompting. As much as she wanted to finish the book in her lap, she pulled the little ribbon marker into place and set it between the two of them. Nearly ten days of travel had taught her that questions were encouraged among these Shifterai men, and particularly with this one man. “Have they seen us approaching?”
“It’s possible,” Kodan admitted. “If one of them is circling up in the sky, they’ll land, tell the others about a caravan approaching, and send a fast-flier to investigate. If not, we might sleep under the stars since it’s a clear night, and one of the scouts might spot the light of our fire tonight. But they might not spot us for another half hour or more. Our caravan is small, after all, compared to the Family encampment.”
Tava twisted in her seat, peering at the wagons in their train, wagons and horses which represented almost one in ten of all the horses and wains in the village of Five Springs.
“When we left at midsummer to try a second round of hire among the outlanders, an outland caravan of eighty-three wagons was in the middle of traveling west across the southern half of the Plains. The West Paw Warband offered to give them escort through Family Tiger territory—the Family was pasturing a lot more to the northwest than it is now,” Kodan added, tugging gently on the reins.
The line of wagons, trampling a nearly uniform trail of wheel and hoof ruts in the grass, started aiming more to the left, away from the tiny dots on the gently sloping terrain. The subtle swell of the land shifted as well, as the South Paw Warband rattled and bumped their way downward until the tiny encampment could no longer be seen.
