by Diana Rivers
“Do you feel it too—the touch?” she asked urgently. I sensed her eagerness, but I could only nod. Words had left me. “You have the powers, too,” she went on. “From all the talk I thought you did. After wolf came, then I knew for sure. I watched you that day leading her away and thought, ‘there is at least one other in this world who is like me.’ My father has forbidden me to speak to anyone of these things, but I cannot live with this silence any longer. It will kill me. I swear I will die soon if I can find no one to share this with.”
I found myself nodding and nodding, saying stupidly, “Yes, I know. yes, yes, I know. Yes...” There were tears running down my face. It was the first time ever that I cried for myself. Not until that moment had I realized how hungry I was, how starved I had been all those years for human company, not company such as my mother or sister, much as I loved them, but someone with whom I could share my inner life, someone else who knew, who understood, and, above all, who was not afraid of me. I had not known I was starving because I had never dreamt it could be different. In Kara’s green eyes I saw doorways opening and my heart melted.
After that we became inseparable, testing and exploring our gifts, playing small games of power with each other: moving objects, drawing birds and animals to us, talking to each other without words—such glorious sharing after all those years of privation. I had never felt so happy or so free. How could any curse or insult touch my heart?
It was not so easy though. Neither of our families wanted us to see each other. In fact, I later found they had contrived all that time to keep us from meeting. Each considered the other dangerous for their daughter’s reputation. Still, with our powers, they could not beat us or compel us by force. As a healer I was free to go about the village on my own or search the woods and bogs for herbs. Kara was far more clever than I at stratagems and concealments and so found ways to meet with me in spite of her father’s oft-voiced disapproval.
We spent as much time together as we could, often in little secret places by the river. It was in just such a place, in the second year of our friendship, that we made our great discovery. We had been swimming and were lying naked on the mossy bank, looking at each other’s bodies We were so different. Kara’s red hair shone like bright metal against the green moss. Her body was even whiter where the sun had not touched it. Her hands and feet were broad, like all the Potter people, and her body stocky. In contrast, I had the dark skin and dark hair of the Kourmairi, and was slim of body with thin hands and feet.
Was I the one, or was it Kara who moved first? Was she the one, running her hands down her own body and then down mine, Kara saying, “We look so different, so very different, yet we feel just the same.” Suddenly we were touching each other all over, laughing and full of delight, wondering why, among all our other games, we had not found this one before. We began by tickling, then soon grew serious. It did not take long to discover that when we touched each other’s bodies in certain places and in certain ways, currents of energy would course through us both, a joy so sharp it was almost like pain yet not pain. It left us with a great hunger for more. After that we played our new game whenever we could, growing more skilled at it, since we had the reading of each other’s minds and bodies. Fortunately, Kara was no innocent like me. She knew instantly that we had fallen on something forbidden.
“Tell no one what we do here. It could be dangerous for us both.”
“How can anything be dangerous that feels so beautiful? It is like a gift from the Goddess.”
“So it may be, but believe me, Tazzia, others will not think so. They will think it evil and make our lives a misery.” It was good she warned me, or I might have rushed home to tell my mother of this great new thing. I think it was the first real silence between us. It weighed on my heart, but I could not risk what I had found with Kara—Kara, who was my only friend. No, more than a friend: a sister. No, more than a sister: Kara, whose hands had opened a whole new world for me, whose fingers could take me to the stars.
***
In my tenth year, Old Tolgath died. I missed her. I missed her far more than I would have thought possible. After all, she had not been a kind or gentle teacher. Most of the time she had been sharp and impatient and as stingy with praise as if hoarding it for a long, cold winter. Many times she would have struck me if she could. But—and this finally was all that mattered—aside from Kara, she was the one person in the village who did not think me strange. That made her irreplaceable. For that, I could have forgiven her all the rest. I would even have hugged or kissed her if only she would have let me. She saw my powers as something to be trained, not to be hidden—a gift of sorts—though even Old Tolgath said to me once, “What are you? You are not a Witch. You are something else. Sometimes you frighten even me.” That gave me something to think upon. Alyeeta said much the same thing to me years later.
Now I did not even have the comfort of Tolgath’s advice. Perhaps from jealousy, perhaps not wanting to be done out of her work so soon, or perhaps because she thought me worth delaying for—not that she ever would have told me that—Tolgath had waited far too long to take an apprentice. I had come to her when I was in my seventh year. Now, a half-taught child, I was suddenly thrust into doing a woman’s job. I grew up quickly after her death, hearing, seeing, and doing things most children are still sheltered from. I threw myself into the healing. Soon I grew better at it, not just more skilled, but better—even without Tolgath’s help. Rarely did I need her words or signs anymore, though sometimes I still used them. It seemed to lessen the fear of the villagers to see some familiar things being done. Familiar magic, however odd it might look, was still less frightening than unseen power, and it was that, it was the power that was showing itself in my healing. At times my hands throbbed with it and my head would ache. Often it seemed as if my fingertips had eyes and could tell at a touch where the trouble lay. Then, with no conscious thought, I could feel my way to the cure with ease.
Those next few years were busy ones for me. The healing work was fast spreading, for people were coming to me from other villages. I was helping my mother as well, sharing her work in the house and on the farm, wanting to lighten her load. Also, I was teaching my little sister what I knew so that she could assist me in my rounds, for she had good careful hands and a kind way. It was with some pride that I earned my keep for the house. I always hoped that, by my bringing home extra food and goods and sometimes even coins for my work, my father would come to see my worth. With the villagers, I think I had finally begun to gain some respect, or even some acceptance, as Tolgath had. Not so with my father. Nothing I did could touch his heart, and my brother, Kerris, mimicked him in every way he could. I must say for my father that he loved my mother much and had no wish to cause her pain. It was only for her sake, I think, that he made no open break with me.
When I was younger, it saddened me that my own father hated and feared me, or perhaps hated me because he feared me. I had so little knowledge of those feelings, but it grieved me to see the pain they cost him. Somehow I thought myself to be the cause and in my small way tried to make amends, always hoping it was a misunderstanding that could be cured, a door to be unlocked if only I could find the key. I would pick him a hat full of the first berries of summer or weave him a small circlet of leaves and flowers, my little peace offerings in this strange war I had not asked for. Hardly glancing at me, he would set aside my gifts with a grunt, to be disposed of later. Instead of being angry I would feel sad and puzzled and try to think of some new stratagem.
All this ended the day of the trouble with the horse. At that time I must have been almost 14 years of age. I was in the barnyard gathering eggs. My father and my brother, Kerris, were struggling to hitch a small mare to our wagon. She was nervous, being newly come into my father’s hands in trade for some pigs. She kept tossing her head and stepping sideways to avoid the harness. My father was never a patient man. He swore at her, and my brother so jerked her head about that she found herself suddenly backed in
to the wagon. Startled, she gave a snort of fear and reared up. When my father leapt forward to help my brother, she came down with her front hoof on his foot. With that he gave a shout of rage and pain. Terrified, she jerked free of my brother’s grip and sprang away. In that instant I found myself between the horse and my father. He had picked up a heavy stick and had it raised over his head, ready to swing at her. I dropped the basket and threw up my hands to ward him back. “Please, Father, do not hit her. She is already afraid. I will gentle her for the wagon.”
“Out of my way, Witch-child!” he snarled at me. He was beyond himself now with anger.
“Put down your stick! You only make her worse!” I shouted back at him, angry myself for once.
With a roar of rage, he swung his stick at me. Such was the force of the blow that when it rebounded and struck his forehead, it knocked him down. Suddenly he was lying flat on his back in the muddy yard with blood spurting from a gash across his forehead. He looked as if he had been struck dead. My brother ran toward the house. He was shouting for my mother to come quickly, that I had killed my father—I, who had never willingly harmed him in any way and had wanted only his love and friendship. Too shocked to move, I stood rooted to the spot by the suddenness of it all. Before I could make myself take a step toward him, he had struggled to his feet. He was a fearful sight. Blood was streaming down his face and into his eyes. He wiped his hand across his face. With blood dripping from his fingers, he pointed them at me. “Witch-brood, you are no child of mine. Never come near me again.” Then, with a cry, he staggered blindly into my mother’s arms, and she led him to the house. My brother followed after them. At the doorway, he stopped to turn a hate-filled look at me. In the next instant the door slammed behind him, and I heard the latch fall.
Alone, head bowed, I stood where they had left me, staring at the bloody ground. My whole body began to shake. I could not stop. I shook as a sapling shakes in the storm winds. I felt it all, all of it, with no shielding and no protection. I felt the horse’s terror, my brother’s hate, my father’s rage and pain, my mother’s fear. This shaking went on and on till I seemed past all hope. I thought I would shake apart in pieces where I stood. Finally, I felt a soft nudge on my arm. There may have been others before that, but this was the first that reached through to me in that state. When I turned, the horse was standing by my elbow. I threw my arms around her neck. Suddenly freed to cry, I wept my heart out against her.
However much I feared for my father’s life and wished to use my healing skills for him, I dared not go near the house. Instead, when the crying stopped, I climbed on the horse’s back and guided her to the river. There I gave our secret call. Then I threw myself down on the river bank. When Kara came, she gathered me into her arms and held me close while I sobbed out my story.
***
My father, of course, did not die. When I saw him next, he had a large lump on his head, but seemed otherwise undamaged. After that, we avoided each other as much as we could in that small house. Though I still grieved for him and for the absence of his love, I no longer tried to please him. Clearly, there was no hope of that. I merely left my earnings on the kitchen table where they could be seen. My brother also avoided me, but as we had not been friends for years, I found that no great loss. When we crossed paths, he would mutter, “Witch-brat,” and spit off to the side, mumbling some warding words. It was my mother’s looks that hurt me, looks that seemed so full of love and pity and yes, even fear. Even my little sister, Ghira, was like a stranger with me for a while. They all seemed to have forgotten that I was not the one who struck my father. That blow had been meant for me.
One good thing, however, came of that day. I had a horse, a horse for riding and for company as well. From then on my father would not touch her. He said she was “witched” and so no more use to him. Such a gentle little thing, she wanted to follow me everywhere like a dog. Her body was black with silver dapples, but all four of her legs were brown as marsh mud, and so, not knowing what else she had been called, I named her Marshlegs.
After that, I threw myself into learning to ride her as I had thrown myself into healing. My battered, aching spirit found some easing there. I would bind back my hair, fasten my skirt up out of the way, and be off across the fields or into the woods. No one taught me except maybe Marshlegs herself. By feel, I learned with my body, and of course we had good contact, mind to mind. After a time, it got so I could move with the horse as if we were one body and breathed one breath. On her back I would ride to all my healings or go deep into the forest, sometimes alone, but more often with Kara. Kara was just learning to play the flute at that time, and so my bitterest memories of my father are all mixed with the sweetness of Kara’s flute music and the hunger of our loving. She even shaped some tunes just for me while we lay together in our secret places in the woods.
Before that final rupture with my father, I had been a happy child. Strange as it seems to me now, the hatred in my village had never really touched me until then. After that day, something in me altered. I never had that innocence again. I felt the meanness around me, paid heed to all those small things I would not have noticed before: the little signs made, the ugly words, the looks, the tone of voice. It was then that I started gathering and storing such things, hoarding them all somewhere in my heart. I saw each incident and marked it, remembering it all, every word, every look, recalling the face and the voice, sealing each person’s nastiness in my mind. That was when the change in me began. And aside from the bitterness eating at me, there was also the waiting. Always, always, I found myself waiting for the next blow to fall.
Yet, strange to say, in some ways my life was better. For a girl, I had great freedom, more than any other in the village. I did as I pleased, answered to no one, and was seldom home. I had a horse to ride everywhere, something I know my brother envied me. He had only the old plow horse when it was not too tired or in use.
That next blow took two years to fall and came from a very different and unexpected quarter. Kara and I continued to see each other and play our games of power and of pleasure. In time we grew careless. Her father came on us that way. Having gone to the river to dig clay in a new place, he found us lying on the bank, unclothed, with our hands on each other’s body. Even now I can see the look of fury and loathing on his face, I can still hear his howl of rage.
Had we been two ordinary girls and not two with powers, I truly think he would have killed me with his bare fists and beaten his daughter close to death. He knew better than that. He knew he could not even strike us. Yet I could see how much he wished to. Several times he clenched his fists and raised his arms only to drop them again. His face turned deep red, so red I feared he might die of rage right before our eyes. I had heard of such things happening. Several times he tried to speak. At last his words came out in a strangled whisper. “Cover your shame! Put on your clothes! You must never see each other again! Never! Do not speak of this to anyone, do you hear! Not one word to anyone if you value your lives!”
Kara had warned me, but nothing she said could have prepared me for the depth of that anger. Nothing! It was like a madness that had suddenly come on him, all the worse for his having to restrain it. Kara went with her father and I went home, shaken and bewildered. I still could not see any great wrong in what we did.
Her father must have spoken to mine, for that night my father sent my brother and sister out of the house and called me into the kitchen. It was the first time in years he had spoken to me directly and by name. My mother was sitting in the corner. I could see she had been crying. As soon as I came in, before I even had a chance to sit, my father began, “Tazzia, you must never see this Potter girl again. Her father is most upset. He wants to make a good Potter match for her. It seems he thinks your company will taint her reputation and her chances.” He went on and on in this way. I was relieved. I could tell Kara’s father had not told him all, had told him very little, in fact.
I nodded and shook my head and said, “Yes,
Father,” or, “No, Father,” at all the places I was meant to. While he spoke, I looked down at the floor. I did not want him to see into my face. No matter what I promised at that moment, I knew that if I could, if there was any way at all, I would see Kara again. I would see her many times, only now we would be far more careful. It was the first time in my life I was aware of telling an untruth and doing so with full intention.
We did continue to meet, of course, but now it was much harder. Kara was already a Potter’s apprentice and would soon be a full Potter herself, so much of her time was taken. Also, her brothers were told to watch her carefully. Luckily, they had girls in another village whom they went to meet with when they could. We would come together late at night or early in the morning. But there was no innocence left in us. We were full of hunger, fierce need, and watchfulness.
So much seemed changed after that. The village that had been my whole world shrank suddenly. Like clothes that have grown too tight, it seemed small and confining. If I had grown up reading books and hearing stories, I might have thought to take Kara and go elsewhere. But where could we have gone and what could we have worked at to stay alive? What did I know but this small place where everything was familiar? I had never been farther than the market village of Koorish. Still, I felt restless and penned in, no longer belonging in Nemanthi and with no other pace to be. One thing was clear, however: as long as Kara was there, then that is where I would stay, no matter what fell.
But Kara herself was different—strange and unsettled. Her clear green eyes were clouded with half-truths, though, of course, we could not really lie to each other, since we had mind-touch. She shifted back and forth and drove me near to madness with her changes. First she would say that we must not see each other anymore and that we must never touch in that way again. It was not right and proper, she would tell me. She would soon be a full Potter herself and must put aside childish things. Her family was looking for a husband for her. Then she would be a married woman with a family of her own and could not be my friend any more.
