White Jenna

by Yolen, Jane;

  “You be thinking about Calla’s Ford Hame?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I am thinking about all the hames, Jareth. But that is not why I am restless.”

  “Can you tell me, Anna?”

  “Do not, for Alta’s blessed sake, call me that,” she said, her voice edged with anger.

  “Call you what?”

  “Anna. That is not my name. My name is Jo-an-enna. My friends call me Jenna.”

  Jareth was quiet for a moment. “But I be thinking you be … I mean, she said you be … that be …”

  “It seems I am,” said Jenna. “Or may be. But that is only a title, something put upon me. It is not what I am in truth.”

  Jareth thought about that a minute, then whispered, “Then who be you? In truth?”

  “Just a girl. And the daughter of many mothers.”

  “That be what they say of Anna. That she be thrice mothered.”

  “And so I was.”

  “And white-haired.”

  “And so I am.”

  “And the hound and ox …”

  “So they did. But I eat like you. And I pass wind if there are beans in the pot. And when I have too much to drink, I must find a place in the woods to …”

  “Anna,” Jareth said, reaching across Duty’s nose to touch her arm. “No one be saying that Anna be not human. No one be calling her a goddess without water or wind. She be … she be linchpin, axletree, link between old carriage and new wheel.”

  “But linchpins and axletrees are made by humans,” Jenna said. “Not by Alta.”

  “Exactly,” Jareth answered. “It be prophecy that be the Goddess’ own.”

  Jenna was silent a long time, thinking about what Jareth had said. At last she sighed. “Thank you, Jareth. I think … I think I shall be able to sleep now.”

  “You be welcome,” he answered, coming around to the front of the horse. “But I be afraid you get no sleep yet. It be your turn at watch.” He laughed, holding out his hand, “Jenna.”

  She took his hand. It was as firm in her own as Catrona’s. Or Skada’s.

  They left before morning light, going out of the forest and crossing three towns in quick succession where no lamps were yet lit and their horses’ hooves the only sound. In the last town, Jenna, Petra, and Catrona waited by the edge while the boys found them food, for Jareth had cousins there.

  Once they stopped to wash the trail dirt from their faces in a small, meandering stream. Five or six times they stopped to relieve themselves and let the horses graze. They slept fitfully through a night that spit intermittent rain, soaking them despite a lean-to of split saplings. Otherwise, they remained on horseback all that day and into the next.

  “I smell of horse,” Petra complained mildly at their waking.

  “You smell no different than a horse,” Jenna amended.

  They laughed heartily at her words, the first such since finding the devastation at the Hame. After that their mood was somewhat lighter, even though their muscles ached and both Marek and Sandor had saddle sores.

  On the eve of the second day they crested a small hill where the beginnings of a great forest spread out below them. Mile after mile of unbroken woods lay on either side of a winding road.

  “That is King’s Way,” Catrona said, pointing to the road. “There is no other through this wilderness. Wilma’s Crossing is on the other side.”

  “Be it not dangerous to stay …” Sandor began, running his fingers through his matted hair.

  “… on the King’s Way?” finished his brother.

  “There is less danger on it than off. This wold is known to only a few and the few are the Greenfolk. They”—Catrona spit between her second and little fingers—” they are not likely to help us. More likely to take our heads. Or our fingers. They like the small bones. Wear them dangling from their ears.”

  Marek and Sandor looked nervously at one another, but Jareth laughed.

  “My Da be speaking often of the Greenfolk. The Grenna, he be calling them. He be saying no such thing about taking bones. They be to themselves,” Jareth said. “And that be all.”

  Catrona smiled at him. “True, they are to themselves. They call this forest their own and do not favor intruders.”

  “There is no bone-taking in that,” Jenna said.

  “It was a joke,” Catrona said.

  Jenna shook her head. “And not very funny.”

  “Tell us more about these Greenfolk and this road,” Petra said, adding quickly, “But no more jokes. You are frightening some of us unnecessarily.”

  Catrona nodded. “When the good queen Wilma built this road, long before the G’runians broke apart our land, she made a pax with the Greenfolk’s council. They have no queens nor kings.”

  “And probably better off for it,” Jenna muttered.

  Ignoring Jenna, Catrona went on as her horse trembled restlessly beneath her. “The pax was this: we would leave the rest of the woods to the Greenfolk if they would leave the road alone.”

  Jareth leaned forward eagerly. “My Da never be telling me this. What be sealing the pax?”

  “Wilma offered them iron or steel or gold but they would have none of it.”

  “None of it?” Marek and Sandor said together, Sandor adding, “Then what could seal it?”

  “They sat in a great circle on the highest hill,” Catrona said. “And …”

  “Pah! There is no hill,” Jenna said. “So much for stories.” She swept her hand expansively from east to west. “I see no hill. Just woodland, green and rolling.”

  “Look at things on a slant, Jenna,” Petra said. “That is what my Mother Alta taught me. On a slant.”

  “That is how the story goes, Jenna,” Catrona said. “I tell it the only way I know. They sat on the great hill—that Jenna cannot see—and ate bread together, swearing that the pax was engraved on their hearts and in their mouths. They hold all their history on the tongue. They do not have writing.” Catrona stood up in her stirrups and stared down at the way.

  The others copied her movement, dark sisters to her light.

  “It is a chancy pax at best. And never more so then now, when the last three kings of the G’runs renamed the Way and promised to build fortresses and inns along it.”

  “I see no buildings,” Jenna said.

  “Not yet. But they will come.” Catrona sat back down. “It was often spoke of when I was in the army. The men all favored it. ‘Stand in the way of a cart,’ they said, ‘and you will have wheel marks across your face.’”

  “It is a terrible thing,” said Jenna, “to break pax with those who still hold it.”

  “If I be king …” Jareth began.

  “And if horses could fly …” Petra said, laughing, “we would be across the wold and at Wilma’s Crossing before nightfall.”

  “But we cannot fly.” Catrona’s face was stern. “And we dare not be stuck on that road with the stars our only protection. Let us find a quiet place off the road, camp the night, and be up before sunrise. It will be a long riding, whether we meet with anyone or not.”

  THE HISTORY:

  The Greenfolk, the Good Folk, the Grenna, the Faire, are all names given to the Dalian equivalent of the Garunian brownies or little people. Though histo-archaeologists, like Magon, try desperately to prove there was an actual race of pygmy-like wood-dwellers who occupied the Old Forest above the Whilem River, frequent diggings in the area have turned up nothing. (See my monograph “Woods-Folk or Would-be Folk: An Investigation into the Whilem River Cross Dig, Passapatout Press, #19.)

  Carbon dating has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that the remains of encampments found throughout the region were at least a thousand years earlier than the dates for the Gender Wars. The few human bones lay scattered rather than buried in gravemounds, proving the hunting-gathering tribes were so primitive that they had no sense of an afterlife. What tribes there were had to have been long gone by the time of the rule of Langbrow.

  Yet the persistence of s
tories about the “folke all greene,” as the ballad goes, has caused even such worthies as Temple and Cowan to consider the possibilities. Legends of the Greenfolk’s generosity toward the followers of the White Goddess are legion in the industrial towns of the Whilem River Valley. Certainly Doyle’s work on the Whilem names (Green As Grass: The Unnatural Occurrence of Color Names Along the Whilem, Hanger College Press), with its suggestion that any forest communities would have a preponderance of woods/green surnames, is persuasive. Magon’s rantings to the contrary, that certainly makes more sense than to say there was a small, proto-human race of faerie folk living in pre-literate splendor, supporting their candidate for queen with magicks and mysteries by the roadside and carrying away folk for rites under the nonexistent Whilem Hills.

  THE STORY:

  The King’s Way was well pounded down, as if recent travelers had been many and recent rains few, but the forest grew right up to the edge of the road. Brambles, nettles, briars, and brush vied for space between the rangy trees. The varieties of green were numberless.

  They pushed the horses unmercifully for the first few hours, but when the gelding stumbled in a hidden, dust-covered hole, nearly throwing Sandor and Marek, Catrona signaled a halt.

  Dismounting, they led the horses to the road’s brushy edge and Catrona picked up the gelding’s left forefoot.

  “I do not think he pulled anything,” she said after a moment’s careful examination.

  “Perhaps we should rest him,” Petra said. “Just in case.”

  “And eat,” Jareth suggested. The other boys nodded.

  But Jenna shook her head. “No. We need to move on. We must reach Wilma’s Crossing Hame before …” She hesitated, decided not to say what they all were thinking. “Besides, I have had the strange feeling …”

  “That we have been watched?” Catrona asked quietly.

  “Something like that,” Jenna said.

  “And for many miles now?”

  Jenna nodded grimly.

  They mounted quickly, ignoring their hollow stomachs, and urged the horses forward. As if sensing danger, the horses responded at once. The gelding raced ahead, proving itself fit. Catrona managed to overtake it, but Jenna held back to guard the rear.

  When she looked over her shoulder, she saw nothing but forest and the layers of green. But then she thought she heard a low drumming sound accompanied by a high whistle. It was at least a mile farther before she realized that what she was hearing was the sound of the horses’ hooves on the King’s Way and the wind racing past her ears. Only that—and nothing more.

  Alternately walking and galloping, they rode for several more hours, before Catrona signaled another halt. This time they moved the horses well off the road and into the cover of a grove of trembling aspen.

  “I do not like this,” Catrona whispered to Jenna. “We have passed no one the entire time.”

  “I thought that was to the good,” Jenna replied.

  “This is usually a well-traveled road. Carts, trains of wagons, individual travelers. Even walkers. We have come across none of them.”

  “We must tell the others.”

  Catrona put a hand on her arm. “No. Wait. Why trouble them before trouble is here?”

  “I was told at Nill’s Hame that Not to know is bad, but not to wish to know is worse,” Jenna said. “These are our friends, Catrona. Our companions. We must trust our backs to them.”

  “They are hardly fighters,” Catrona said wearily. “I trust my back to Katri and to you.”

  “They are all we have,” Jenna pointed out.

  Catrona sighed. “Yes, they are. More fools we.” She put her fingers to her mouth, and whistled the others to her.

  Gathered in a close circle, they listened as Catrona spelled out her fears. Jareth’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, but Sandor and Marek rocked back and forth, as if the movement helped them understand what she was saying. Petra’s whole body was still, and she breathed slowly, using latani breathing. Jenna matched her, breath for breath, but once settled into the rhythm of the expirations, she felt the familiar lightening as her real self pulled free of her body to float above it.

  Catrona’s voice was like a buzzing of insects as Jenna ranged over them. Her translucent fingers reached down to touch each in turn on the skull’s center where the pulse beat under the fragile shield of skin and bone.

  At that touch, as she had done before, Jenna felt herself being drawn down inside each of her companions in turn. Catrona was a strong fire, the hottest point in the center; Petra, a spill of cool water over a rocky race. The brothers were lukewarm, like milk fresh from the cow. But Jareth reminded her of Carum for he seemed to have pockets of fire and ice, pockets of alien heat, though she was not moved by them as she had been when centered on the young prince.

  She pulled herself away, fleeing back into the air, and suddenly saw pinpricks of light in a great circle around them; dancing lights coming closer and closer. Flinging herself down into her own body she slipped into it as if into familiar clothes. “Back to mine,” she cried.

  On the signal, Catrona unsheathed her sword and stood back-to-back with Jenna. Jareth understood almost as quickly.

  “Your knives!” he called to Marek and Sandor.

  They drew their knives and stood with Petra in their center, waiting. For a long minute they could hear nothing: not a snap of twig nor rustle of grass. It was as if the forest itself had stopped breathing.

  Suddenly Jenna’s head went up with a jerk. “There!”

  They looked around. At first there was nothing to be seen. And then—there was. A circle of some thirty mannikins surrounded them, dressed all in green, jerkins and trews, as if they had metamorphosed from the trees or brush. They were half the size of a man, with skin a greenish cast, like a translucent glaze, over fine bones. Yet they did not give the impression of fragility. It was as if the land itself had been thinned down to its essence and given human form.

  Duty whickered nervously, followed by the bays. Only the gelding was silent, pawing the ground over and over with a dull thudding.

  One of the green watchers moved forward, breaking the circle, and stood not three feet from Jenna. She could have leaned over and touched him on the top of the head but she did not move. He raised his hand in greeting, speaking in a strange, lilting tongue.

  “Av Anna regens; av Anna quonda e futura.”

  “Speak so we can understand,” Jareth cried out, his voice cracking like a boy’s.

  “I can understand him,” Petra said quietly. “My Mother Alta required I learn the old tongues. He says, Hail, White Queen; hail White One now and forever.”

  Jareth grunted, but Marek spoke. “That be all right, then. Our Da be saying: If a man call you master, trust him for a day; if he call you friend, trust him for a year; if he call you brother, trust him for all ways.” It was the longest speech any of them had heard from him.

  “But he called me none of those,” said Jenna. “He called me Anna. So how would your Da say he can be trusted?”

  Marek started to work out an answer, but the little man held up his hand and the boy was strangely still.

  “For as long as the forest, Anna,” said the little man, suddenly speaking their language, his voice only slightly accented.

  “Why …” Jareth began, but Jenna hushed him.

  “For as high as the heavens,” the little man continued. “We have waited since the beginning of this time for you, cocooned in the time. Your birth has been told around many fires, your reign under many stars. First the Alta and at last the Anna, so the circle can close.”

  “Since the beginning of this time …” Jenna murmured to herself. “And the closing of the circle … What does that mean?” Out loud she said, “You have called me by a title, but I am called Jenna by my friends. Are you my friend?”

  The little man grinned broadly, his even white teeth white against the green of his face. Bowing, he said, “We are your brothers.”

  “All ways
!” Marek said triumphantly.

  “May be,” Jareth whispered under his breath. “May be not.”

  The little man ignored them, speaking only to Jenna. “You may call this one Sorrel. That is not this one’s true name, but your mouth would not be able to shape it nor your heart hear its sound.”

  “I understand,” Jenna said. “I have a hidden name as well. So, Sorrel, are you king of these green folk?”

  “We have neither king nor captain. We have only the circle.”

  “Then how is it you speak for your … circle?” Catrona interrupted.

  “This one is first this time by the circle’s leave,” Sorrel said.

  Nodding, Jenna sheathed her sword. “I put my weapon away this time. As does my sister, Catrona.”

  Catrona raised one eyebrow and, very slowly, replaced her own sword.

  “And my men will put away their knives,” Jenna added. She bit her upper lip, the only betrayal of her nervousness.

  With a slight frown, Jareth slipped his knife into his boot. When Marek and Sandor hesitated, he growled at them, “Come on. Come on.”

  “We do this,” Jenna said slowly, “because you carry no weapons against us.”

  There was a strange titter that ran around the circle of little men. Sorrel bowed again.

  “We must tell you truly, we carry no weapons ever but these, Anna,” Sorrel said. He held up his hands. His fingers were extremely long, the nails a paler green.

  “And how potent are they?” Petra asked, her voice overly polite. “Potentas manis qui?”

  He giggled, a sound like a bird’s trill. “Trez. Very, Little Mother. Very potent indeed.” He reached out suddenly and snapped off a greenwood stick, stripping it and twisting it quickly into a noose. Still smiling, he threw the noose away.

  Catrona made a tching sound between her teeth and Jenna turned to her quickly. “These are our brothers, Catrona. For the moment.”

  Catrona nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Sorrel’s hands.

  “With our sisters, our hands are as the sweet weed, the althea, smooth and soothing,” Sorrel said. “See.” In one liquid movement he was at Duty’s side. He stroked the horse’s nose. She sighed deeply, an odd sound, and leaned into his hands.