by Jean Johnson
“Manolo has children?”
“Manolo lost his wife to a plague of wracking-cough that swept through the City two years ago. Almost a thousand of us died before the Healer-priests found the right combination of herbs and spells to heal the sickest among us.” Kodan shook his head. “We’re usually quite healthy, and careful to isolate those who are ill when we gather in large numbers, but sometimes such things spread too quickly to be caged—yes, Father?”
“I will escort our newest member to the camp center,” Siinar stated, holding out his hand to Tava.
“I will escort her,” Kodan asserted. His father opened his mouth to argue. Guessing what about, Kodan cut him off. “But you are welcome to walk with us, to help observe the proprieties.”
“The proprieties include you not holding on to her hand for so long,” the older Shifterai pointed out.
Sighing roughly, Kodan released Tava’s fingers. “Fine. This way, Tava. As Deian said, the sooner we do this, the sooner we’ll get to do everything else.”
Biting back an urge to smile, Tava contented herself with walking at his side. The whole concept of being courted was still a novel one, for her. Hearing Kodan’s impatience, coupled with her memories of the previous night’s explorations, made her feel wanted.
Desired, rather, she corrected herself. I don’t think he’s actually aroused at this moment, but I do know he likes me. She wrinkled her nose a moment later. Lovely. Now I want to hold his hand, only I can’t. At least these customs were reassuring, even if they were a bit more restrictive than she had expected.
The sheer number of people wasn’t entirely expected, either. The village of Five Springs contained maybe four hundred people, but only on rare occasion had she ever seen all of them gathered together. The men, women, and children heading toward them easily numbered that many.
The members of Family Tiger were friendly, calling out greetings with smiles and upraised hands. Thankfully, she didn’t have to greet each and every one. Kodan and Siinar merely introduced her every so often as “Tava Ell Var, formerly of the Mornai” as they walked along. No one impeded their path toward the middle of the camp, either.
Catching sight of her soft, puzzled frown, Kodan asked, “Something is bothering you?”
“They’re not asking questions,” Tava said. “I thought your people asked lots of questions.”
Siinar answered from her other side. “They will, but after you have been tucked under the care of the priestesses. At that point, we will be interrogated over the next several days, just as you will be taught. Kodan will have to explain his decision to bring you onto the Plains to both the Council of Sisters and the Council of Shifters.”
“I won’t be in trouble with them,” Kodan said, interpreting her swift glance his way. “They will just want to make sure I considered how well you would fit into the Shifterai way of life. Which you will,” he reassured her. “Far more than you ever suited Valley life. Once you’ve learned our history and the basics of our culture, when you come out of the priests’ care, then you’ll be asked all the questions you can answer about the Mornai way of life. Just as you’ll be expected to ask yet more questions about ours . . . unless you’re too shy to ask.”
She smiled at his teasing and turned her attention back to the dome-roofed tents they were passing. It was easy to tell which ones were common-use by the differences in their decorations. It was also easy to tell which ones were the refreshing tents, since they were small, square, and solid-colored. A blushing request to detour toward one was granted, allowing her to see the inside of the red one.
The front of the tent was divided from the back by plain white curtains strung to either side of the tall central pole, and the back half was divided again by a third curtain, forming two little rooms. The two little back areas each had a wooden box with a lid, a basket of what looked like ashes, and a basket of fresh-picked, broad-bladed grass. Tava recognized it quickly enough as the kind recommended for such needs.
Four more poles held up the corners inside, supported by a short metal shaft caging each pole in place with iron rings, while lines had been strung out to stakes set in the ground from the spikes piercing reinforced holes in the corners of the canvas. In the front half, there was another one of those clever wrought iron washstands to one side, with a scrap of linen, a pot of softsoap, and what looked like recently freshened water in the bowls. On the other side of the entrance in the front half were extra, lidded baskets, no doubt containing more ashes and grass.
I think this just might be more civilized than the old refreshing hut back home, she decided, gingerly lifting the lid on one of the boxes and peering down inside. It was hard to see, with the red walls of the tent lending their scarlet glow to everything, but it looked like the pit dug below the box was well maintained. Certainly it doesn’t smell as bad as I’d have thought, and that washstand is a very nice touch . . .
Sliding the curtain into place on its rod for privacy, she used the tent as it was intended, then ducked out to scrub her hands in the way she had seen the warband men doing it, first soaping her hands over the graywater bowl, then using the dipper to pour fresh water over her skin. Another woman came into the tent as she was rinsing, an older woman who smiled at her. The woman’s smile slipped a little as she dropped her gaze to Tava’s dress, and she tsked.
“Forgive me, I can see you are the outlander the South Paw brought home, but . . . what is that thing you are wearing?” the gray-and-black-haired woman asked, wrinkling her nose.
Tava glanced reflexively at her dress, one of her older, pink-dyed gowns. “It’s just a dress. A Mornai dress.”
“It makes you look like you’re wearing a root bag. It is too loose and shapeless. I am Kinedi, one of the Family weavers. I will teach you how to make good Shifterai clothes—you will look very beautiful when you are done, I promise you that,” she added, stepping into the other stall and tugging the curtain shut. “Priestess Soukut will no doubt be your chief teacher. I will ask her to let me be your weaving teacher. I think the cloth might be salvageable, but the shape of that dress is not. You are on the Plains now, and you should wear Plains clothes.”
“Um . . . thank you,” Tava replied politely. She reminded herself that her pride couldn’t be stung very much because it was an old gown. She supposed, compared to the fitted tunics of the Shifterai, her Mornai dress was rather baggy. But the woman’s freely expressed opinion was a bit of a shock, particularly since they were merely in a canvas-walled tent. Anyone outside could have heard her words, including the two men waiting for her. Drying her hands, she stepped outside.
The moment she came out, Kodan studied her clothes objectively. He had heard the weaver’s comments, but then, Kinedi hadn’t bothered to lower her voice. “She’s right. You need Shifterai clothes.”
Tava blushed and looked down at her dress again. “I suppose . . .”
“There were plenty of bolts of cloth in the loot we took from the bandit camp. I will trade you, ounce for yard, some of your share of the ingots paid for your farm for some of the warband’s share of the cloth we gained,” Kodan offered.
Almost agreeing, Tava closed her mouth before she could speak, giving his offer some thought. “Ounce for yard . . . of just the copper, or of the other ingots, too?”
Kodan saw the shrewd wariness in her green eyes and was halfway delighted by it. Not completely, since he did realize he had just awakened whatever bartering instinct she had, but somewhat delighted. He decided to test her trading skills. “Ounce for yard of all.”
“Ha! Ounce for yard of the copper, ounce for three yards of the bronze, and ounce for ten yards of the iron!” She planted her hands on her hips to hide their trembling, since part of her was still nervous that such outspoken daring on her part would bring down the wrath of . . . well, maybe not Kodan, but probably of his father. Or the other men clustering nearby, studying the strange woman in their midst.
To her surprise, not only did those other men grin; Siinar la
ughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “You, young maiden, have the tongue and heart of a Shifterai woman, not one of those meek Mornai maids . . . but you should have asked for two yards per copper and twelve per iron—and make sure you save enough iron to trade for a good cookstove, almost pound for pound, once we get to the City.”
A glance at the men and women around her showed only approval. Even the woman from the refreshing tent, Kinedi, was smiling and waiting to hear her reply. Once again, Tava felt like she were a butterfly, still trapped in its cocoon . . . but with the shell of that cocoon finally beginning to break open.
Facing Kodan, she lifted her chin. “Three yards per ounce of copper, seven yards per ounce of bronze . . . and none of the iron!”
Laughter roared from the others. It took her a moment to realize they were laughing at Kodan—whose suntanned cheeks had flushed—and not at her. It took her another moment to realize he was smiling. That he wasn’t offended by her brash raising of the price.
Arms folded across his chest, Kodan rubbed his chin and considered her offer. “. . . Two yards per ounce of copper, four yards per ounce of bronze . . . and I’ll throw in a spool of thread and two metal buttons for every four yards.”
Tava looked at the men and women around her and found the weaver-woman pointing at her shoulder, where the front of her chamsa tunic was fastened along her right shoulder by three buttons. The older woman then pointed to her hip on that same side and held up four fingers, mouthing the number.
“A spool and four buttons. One button per yard,” she clarified as Kinedi smiled.
“One button for every three yards, and the fourth is the spool,” Kodan countered.
“The first is the spool,” Tava corrected. “And . . . Kinedi picks out the fabric and the lengths to make . . .”
“To make her six summer-weight and four winter-weight sets of chamsas and breikas,” Kinedi supplied. “Plus two night-tunics, and enough felting for two pairs of mocasha and two winter coats.”
“Agreed.” Unfolding his arms, Kodan held up his palms. He stepped forward when she would have clasped hands, switching it instead to a forearm grip. “This is how we seal bargains on the Plains.”
“Ah.” She gripped his forearms and let him shake and squeeze a little . . . and felt his two littlest fingers lightly caressing her skin on the undersides, where it would be difficult for the others to see the subtle movement. Their eyes met, and she felt her cheeks grow warm with a blush. “Agreed.”
Sliding his fingers free of her forearms, he nodded at the weaver. “You should clasp forearms with her, too, to seal your bargain . . . once you’ve settled on what you’ll pay her for her services, of course.”
“I’ll take one of each of those three metal buttons. That will pay for my part of the labor, the skill and the teaching, and I’ll throw in the leather for the soles and toes of the mocasha—the winter boots you will need. You will be taught how to make them yourself, to pay for the rest of it,” Kinedi bartered. “It is a generous offer, but then, you will need decent clothes to become one of us.”
Unsure whether or not that was a good barter, Tava glanced at Kodan. Both he and his father nodded. Nodding herself, she clasped forearms with the woman. “Agreed.”
“Agreed! Now go on; the priests are waiting for you,” the gray-and-black-haired woman urged her. “Don’t forget to tell Soukut that I will be your weaver-teacher, if you want to get your barter’s worth!”
“I won’t forget,” Tava promised, feeling elated at what had just happened. Not the barter itself, for she was used to bartering for what she needed from the other women in the village, but for the fact that she had done so in public, surrounded by men . . . and all of them had approved of her brash counteroffers. She felt light inside, as if she could just leap up and float on the next breeze.
The buoyant feeling persisted all the way to the center of camp, past modest-sized geomes painted with animals, wagons covered with heavy tarps, and the occasional animal, usually a horse but sometimes a cat. It surprised her to see the fluffy, striped cats, but she didn’t figure out why until the all-blue teaching geome came into view. Knowing she had only a few more moments, Tava quickly turned to Kodan with her question.
“Kodan—I see these little cats here and there, and they’re clearly pets, but I don’t see any dogs. Is it because this is Clan Cat, or . . . ?”
He shook his head. “It’s more that dogs don’t always get along with shapeshifters, even in the Families of Clan Dog. We don’t know why, though some say it could be because our smell changes just enough that a dog thinks of the reshaped shifter as a newcomer and a possible threat to its pack.”
“There are a few canine bloodlines that get along, but they’re kept more on the farms with the overseers,” Siinar explained. “Those are the Shifterai who choose to farm all the time, instead of travel. Those are usually the non-shifter men anyway, so they’re probably less of an ongoing threat in the dogs’ minds. Besides,” the older man added, shrugging eloquently, “who needs to raise and train a herd-dog when you have a shapeshifter at hand?”
“Teaching the newcomer how to suck an egg is my job, young man,” a new voice interjected.
The strength of the woman’s voice made Tava look that way. The sight of the short, sun-wrinkled, white-haired, white-clad woman startled her, for she stood with the posture of a woman in her twenties, spoke with the confidence of a woman in her forties, yet had the body of a woman closer to her seventies. Hazel green eyes studied Tava thoroughly from head to boot and back.
“Well. South Paw brings us a new daughter. Do you come here of your own free will? Do you come to learn the life of the Shifterai, to become one with us and our ways in all things that matter?”
The blunt questions caught her off guard. Tava knew she could answer that she was here only because Kodan was holding her things ransom in exchange for her presence. That she only intended to stay either a month or a year. But a glance at the others, at Kodan himself, at Siinar, at the friendly middle-aged Kinedi, and the other men and women who had followed in her wake, reminded her of what had just happened. That she had been herself—not having to bite her tongue and be demure and quiet—and these people, these people had approved.
Kodan is right. I was as well suited to Valley life as an eagle raised to think it was a duck. I am not a duck of the Valley. I was meant to soar the skies, not spend my life floating on water. I’m not completely sure I’m an eagle of the Plains, but I do know I am one . . . and I am far better off here than I ever was down there. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the white-clad woman.
“Yes. I am here of my own free will, and . . . I do wish to learn the ways of the Shifterai.”
“Good! I am Soukut. I am the hearth-priestess of Family Tiger, and still something of an earth-priestess for the older men—you will find out what those things mean in a little bit,” Soukut dismissed, flicking her fingers. “You may call me Priestess, Soukut, or some combination of the two. Now, what do I call you, and where were you from?”
“Tava. Tava Ell Var, of Five Springs village, down in the Valley. The Morna Valley,” Tava clarified, just in case.
“I figured as much, from your clothes,” Soukut muttered, giving Tava’s clothes a dismissive glance. “Priest Yemii has been busy finding a selection of clothes for you to try, and Priestess Soulet—she is my daughter, and one of three mage-priests in all of Family Tiger—is heating a bath for you. From the skin out, and from the mind in, we will bathe away your old life and immerse you in one that is new. Come!”
Bemused, Tava turned to look at Kodan. He bowed, pressing his palms together. “I will see you in ten days. I promise.”
Tava had the feeling the priestess caught every word. She wanted to reach out to Kodan, to touch him one last time for reassurance, but guessed that it was now forbidden. Nodding her head, she hurried to follow the priestess toward the all-white geome a few yards away. As soon as she caught up, she held her tongue for maybe two, three hear
tbeats, then let her questions spill out.
“Priestess . . . what is an earth-priestess, versus a hearth-priestess? Where am I supposed to stay during these ten days? Who do I pay for the clothes I will wear, until my own can be made? Oh—I’m supposed to say that I made a barter with Kinedi the weaver, for her to teach me Shifterai weaving in exchange for her making me some, uh . . . well, I suppose you’d call them decent clothes. You don’t mind, do you?”
The aging woman chuckled, opening the door of the holy geome. “Patience. All your questions will be answered. First, we pay homage to the Gods: Father Sky and Mother Earth.”
The interior of the geome was as spacious as the warband geome, with a tiger-hide-draped altar set up in the middle of the four ceiling posts and with objects fastened to the latticework walls. But it was the floor and the ceiling that caught and held Tava’s attention. The ground had been laid with thick green and yellow felt, matted in such a way that it suggested patterns of low bushes amidst sun-yellowed grass, exactly like the prairie outside. The only spot not covered by the felt was a patch of earth right in front of the altar, where the sod had been moved aside and the soil mounded up so that it was level with the felt flooring.
The ceiling was hung with taut-pulled cloth panels just beneath the roof staves, each panel dyed light blue and painted with the fluffy tufts of white and gray clouds. Instead of four lightglobes hanging from the edges of the ceiling, a huge, pale yellow ball hung from the center, stiffened on the inside with what looked like a long spiral of thin-carved reed. Judging from the bright glow radiating through the thin, oiled paper, there had to be at least three lightglobes inside, if not four.
Tava found herself urged into kneeling in front of the altar and coached into asking the Patron God and Goddess of the Shifting Plains for Their loving protection while she lived among the Shifterai. Then she had to kiss the dirt in front of the altar, but it was no worse than having mud smeared on her forehead for the spring and autumn festivals, or having water dabbed in the summer. Certainly, kissing the soil was far more pleasant than having a chunk of river ice rubbed over her brow in the winter by the village priest back home.
