He walked away. Nia sat awhile looking at the river. A fish thrashed in the water where they had set one of their traps. She waded out to get it.
On the trip south she barely saw him. Once or twice, through the dust, she got a glimpse of a young man riding. It might have been him. One evening he came to their tent. His fur was rough and dull. His clothes were dirty. He sat down across from them and helped himself to dinner. Old Hua, who was usually talkative, said nothing.
At last Nia said, “How are you?”
He looked at her blankly. His eyes were not pure yellow, she noticed. There was orange around the pupils. She hadn’t remembered that.
He made the gesture that meant neither good nor bad. Then he went back to eating. After he was done, he left.
“Finish up your gifts,” old Hua said.
She did. The last one was a buckle made of iron, covered with silver. It showed a bowhorn fighting a killer of the mountains.
“Not bad,” said Hua. “You will do me proud someday.”
Nia made the gesture that meant a polite or modest refusal to agree.
“You have too little self-respect,” Hua said.
The trip ended. The people set up their tents next to the Brown River. North of them there was a stone ridge. Its lower slopes were forested. To the south, across the river, was the plain: rolling, tree-dotted, late summer yellow. The herd was pastured there.
There was no sign of Anasu. Nia felt uneasy.
“He will come,” Ti-antai said. “No man leaves without his parting gifts—unless, of course, the change drives him crazy. But that rarely happens.”
“You are not always a comfort, cousin.”
At first the weather was dry. Then it began to rain. Every day there were a few drops at least. Most days it rained or drizzled for hours. The air was cold. Hua said her bones ached. Nonetheless, she kept busy.
One afternoon they were both at the forge. Nia worked the bellows for Hua, who was making a long knife: a parting gift for Gersu, the tanner’s son, who was a little younger than Anasu.
When the hammering was done and the blade was in cold water, Nia set down the bellows. She rubbed her neck.
“Nia.” It was Anasu. His voice sounded hesitant.
Nia looked around. He stood nearby, holding his bowhorn’s reins. He looked worse than ever: shaggy, muddy, confused.
“Anasu?”
“I—” He stopped for a moment. “I have come for the gifts. I am going across the river.”
She made the gesture of acknowledgment, then the gesture of regret.
“You stay here,” Hua said. “No one will bother you. We’ll pack everything.”
They went inside. Hua put wood on the fire, then set a pan of milk to heat.
Nia got out the new saddlebags the tanner had made, then the cloth she had gotten from Blind Angai, the weaver, in return for a new pot. She or Hua or Ti-antai had made most of the rest of the things. She laid them out one by one: the new knife, the kettle, the brass needles, the awl, and the long-handled comb, the kind that men used to comb the hair on their backs.
What else? She was having trouble thinking.
“The new belt, ninny!” Hua was packing food: dried meat, dried berries, bread.
At last they were done. Hua poured the milk into a cup. They took the saddlebags to Anasu. It had begun to rain a little. He was standing where they’d left him, looking nervous. His bowhorn, sensing the nervousness, kept moving, turning its head, flicking its ears, tugging at the reins.
Just as they reached Anasu, he yanked the reins and shouted, “Keep still, you!”
The bowhorn bellowed and reared. Anasu pulled it down. He grabbed the saddlebags from Nia. A moment later he was astride the bowhorn. He bent and slapped the beast on one shoulder. The bowhorn began to run.
“Anasu!” Nia cried.
He was gone.
“Men!” said Hua. “They always make a spectacle. And here I am with this cup of milk. I meant to give it to him. Well, it will do me as much good.” She took a swallow.
Nia made a groaning sound, then doubled her hand and began to beat one thigh.
“That is right. Get the grief out of you.”
Nia kept hitting her thigh.
As Hua had predicted, it was a bad winter. It was cold, and there was a lot of snow. Nia wondered how Anasu was doing. She prayed to the Master of the Herds, asking him to protect her brother.
At the time of the solstice Gersu went crazy and had to be driven out of the village. Afterward, his mother took his gifts across the river. She hung them from the branches of a big tree. Maybe he would find them and take them. Most likely, not.
“He always had a bad look in his eyes,” said Hua.
Nia made the gesture of agreement.
Spring came early. The plain turned pale blue. The bushes along the river put out yellow blossoms. Nia felt almost happy.
“You see,” said Hua. “We get over everything.”
“No. I don’t believe that.”
“You will see.”
The mating season came. Ti-antai, who had just finished weaning her last child, felt the spring lust and left. Nia moved into her tent and took care of the children.
Ten days later Ti-antai returned. She looked rumpled and relaxed. “Well, that’s over.” She stretched and yawned.
“Did you see Anasu?”
“Of course not. Nia, what’s wrong with you? He must be far to the south with the other young men. I didn’t get down there.” Ti-antai rolled a blanket into a pillow, then lay down. She yawned again. “I got a big fellow, half a day’s ride from here. He does good carving. He gave me a salt horn full of salt. Hu! Do I need to sleep!”
None of the women had met Anasu, but none of them had gotten very far south. They had all mated with older men, who had their territories close to the village.
“Don’t worry,” said Hua. “In a year or two or three someone will meet him and tell you.”
Nia made the gesture that meant she understood. As she made the gesture, she thought—there was something wrong. Something out of balance. Why were people so often lonely?
They went north to the Summer Land. Once settled there Nia looked around for new friends. She had spent too much time with Anasu. She had relied on him too much.
She picked the younger Angai to be her friend. Angai was the daughter of the shamaness. She was a thin, clever girl, often sarcastic. But she knew many interesting things: the uses of plants, the meaning of flights of birds. Like Nia, she was lonely.
“I have many skills,” she told Nia. “But not the skill of friendship. How terrible!”
Nia looked at her. Was she being sarcastic? Yes. Her mouth was twisted down at one corner, a sign that she didn’t really mean what she had said.
At midsummer, at the festival, they got drunk together and fell asleep in one another’s arms.
In the late summer Nia made a necklace for Angai. Every link was a bird made of silver.
“Wonderful!” Angai said. She hugged Nia, then put the necklace on. “Everyone in the village will envy me!”
“You think too much of other people’s opinions.”
Angai looked irritated, then said, “That may be.”
For a day or two after that Angai was standoffish. Then she came to Hua’s forge and brought a gift. It was a salve that made any burn stop hurting.
“It’s my mother’s own recipe. I made it this time. My mother says it’s good.”
Nia took the jar. “Thank you.”
“Can we stop fighting now?”
Nia laughed. “Yes.”
The fall was dry, and the trip south was easy, almost pleasant. Nia and Angai kept together. Sometimes Angai rode in Hua’s cart. Sometimes Nia rode beside the cart of the shamaness. She never got into it, of course. It was full of magic.
One day they rode off, away from the caravan. They let their bowhorns run. When the beasts began to tire, they stopped. The land was flat and empty. They saw nothing except t
he yellow plain and the blue-green sky. Somewhere close by a groundbird sang: whistle-click-whistle.
“Hu!” said Nia. She rubbed her bowhorn’s neck.
“There are times,” Angai said, “when I get tired of people. I think, I would like to be a man and live by myself.”
“You have a lot of strange ideas.”
Angai made the gesture of agreement. “It comes of living with my mother. Let’s spend the night out here, away from everyone.”
“Why?”
Angai made the gesture of uncertainty.
“That is not much of a reason,” Nia said. “And I have no desire to do the things that men do.”
Late in the afternoon they rode back to the caravan. It was still moving. The carts and the animals threw up clouds of dust. As they came near Nia could hear the sound of voices: women and children shouting. For a moment the noise made her angry. She wanted to turn back, into the silence of the plain.
She didn’t. Instead, she rode on, looking for Hua’s cart.
When they reached the Winter Land, Ti-antai fell sick. Blood came out of her, and she miscarried. The shamaness held a ceremony of purification and a ceremony to avert any further bad occurrences. After that Ti-antai grew better, but very slowly. She was sick well into the winter.
Nothing else important happened, except that Nia found she could get along with Suhai. They took to visiting each other—not often, but once in a while. Suhai was getting old. There were gray hairs in her pelt. Her broad shoulders sagged. She complained of the winter cold and her children’s ingratitude.
“They never visit me. After all the years of care they leave me alone. Is this in balance? Is this usual and right?”
Nia said nothing.
“Well?” Suhai asked.
“I will not criticize their behavior. The proverbs say, don’t speak badly of kinfolk or anyone else you travel with. The proverbs also say, don’t intervene in other people’s quarrels.”
“Hu! I raised a wise woman, did I?”
Nia didn’t answer.
Suhai got up, moving stiffly. “I’m not going to listen to a child spit out wisdom like the fish in the old story that spit out pieces of gold. It’s unnatural. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, foster mother. I will visit you in a day or two.”
Spring came. It was early again. Nia began to feel restless. At night she was troubled by dreams. Often, in the dreams, she saw her brother or other young men, even crazy Gersu.
When she was up, she was usually tired. She found it difficult to concentrate on anything. She began to make mistakes at the forge.
“Can’t you do anything the right way?” Hua asked.
Nia stared at her, bemused.
“Well, that’s an answer of a kind. But not a good kind,” Hua said.
Finally she picked up a knife blade that was still hot. She burnt her hand badly. Hua took care of the burn, then said, “Enough. Get out. Don’t come back until you are able to work.”
Angai gave her a potion that reduced the pain. She slept a lot. Her dreams were fragmentary, unclear, disturbing. Always, it seemed, Anasu was in them.
At length her hand stopped hurting. Now, though, it seemed her body was full of eerie sensations: itches and tingles. Often she felt hot, though it was still early spring. The weather wasn’t especially warm.
She went to visit Ti-antai.
“The spring lust,” her cousin said. “I can see it in your face. Well, you’re old enough. Pack your bag now. Food and a gift for the man. Something useful. Cloth or a knife. You’ll be ready to go in a day or two.”
She packed. That night she didn’t sleep at all. Her body itched and burned. In the morning she went out. The touch of the wind made her shiver. Time to go, she thought. She got her favorite bowhorn and saddled it. After that she went to get her saddlebag.
“Take care,” Hua said.
For a moment she didn’t realize who the old woman was. Then she remembered. “Yes.” She went out, mounted, and rode away.
She forded the river. The water was shallow. There was a little mist. On the far side was a tree. A couple of rags hung from the branches. There was a knife driven into the wood. The blade and hilt were rusted. She glanced at all this, then forgot it and rode onto the plain.
At midafternoon she came to the edge of the herd. The first animal she saw was a huge male. One horn was broken. The long shaggy hair that covered his neck and chest was silver-brown. He bellowed, then lowered his head, as if about to charge. Then he lifted his head and shook it. A moment later he trotted away.
Good, she thought. She was in no mood for a confrontation.
She rode on. Soon she came upon other animals: yearlings and two-year-olds. They were too old to be mothered and too young to stand their ground against the big males, the guardians of the herd. This time of year they stayed at the edges of the herd, well away from the does and their new fawns. They didn’t like it at the edges. Often the yearlings would try to go in and find their mothers. But the big males would drive them away.
Nia stopped at dusk. She found a tree and tethered her bowhorn. Then she built a fire. The night was cold. She had forgotten her cloak. She stayed up and kept the fire going.
In the morning, at sunrise, the man appeared, He looked to be thirty or thirty-five, broad-shouldered, heavy. His pelt was dark brown. He wore a yellow tunic, high boots, a necklace of silver and bronze.
He reined his bowhorn and looked at her a moment. His gaze was steady and calculating. Then he dismounted. She stepped back, all at once uneasy.
“I thought you looked pretty young,” he said. “Is this going to be a lot of trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
His fur was thick and glossy. He had an interesting scar: a streak of white that went down his right arm from the shoulder to the inside of the elbow.
“Who are you?” Nia asked.
He looked irritated. “Inani. Do you mind not talking? Talking makes me edgy.”
She made the gesture of assent. He moved closer, then reached out and touched her. She shivered. Gently he put one arm around her. What happened next was not entirely clear to her.
When they were done, Nia got up and rebuilt the fire. She heated milk. Inani dozed with his back against the tree. From time to time he started awake. He glanced around, then relaxed and dozed off again. At last he woke completely. Nia gave him a cup. They sat on opposite sides of the fire and drank.
Inani said, “Who are you?”
“Nia. Suhai’s foster daughter. Have you met my brother Anasu?”
“No. I know the men whose territories are next to mine. I keep away from them as much as I can, but during the migrations things get mixed up. People get too close together. Sometimes I think it would be better to go away entirely.”
“Who is your mother?”
“The tentmaker. Enwa. Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Inani stood up. “Stay here, will you?” He mounted his bowhorn. “You’re less trouble than I expected. I’ll return in the evening.”
He rode off. She slept most of the day. In the evening Inani returned. They mated again. He made camp a short distance away. Nia watched his campfire for a while, then went to sleep.
The next day he left again and came back in the late afternoon. They mated. He returned to his camp. The night was cloudy. There were gusts of cold wind. Nia huddled close to her fire and shivered. After a while she looked up and saw Inani. He stood at the edge of the firelight, just barely visible.
“Yes? What is it?”
He stepped forward and held something out. A cloak. It fluttered in the wind.
Nia got up. “Thank you.”
She took the cloak. Inani stayed where he was. For a moment Nia thought he was going to speak. He didn’t. Instead, he made the gesture that meant “oh, well.” He turned and walked into the darkness.
Strange! She wrapped the cloak around her, then lay down.
The next morning he rode
off again. Nia stayed by the tree. She was getting restless, but she didn’t dare go riding. She didn’t know where Inani’s territory ended. If she strayed into another man’s territory, he would claim her. Inani might follow her. Then there would be an argument. She had heard about such things. Usually, the two men threatened each other until one of them gave up and went away. But sometimes they fought. Old Hua had seen a man die, a knife blade in his chest. How terrible! But also interesting. What would it be like to watch a fight that was really serious?
Inani came back in the evening. They mated. This time he stayed after. He sat on the far side of the fire and asked questions. How was Enwa? And his sisters? Was old Niri still alive?
“No.”
Inani scratched his head. “Well, he was old. He taught me carving. Can I stay here tonight?” Nia made the gesture of assent.
She woke at sunrise. The air was cold and still. Inani was gone. She sat up, stretching and groaning. The fire was out. Beside its ashes lay two objects.
“What?” she said out loud. She went over and examined them: a bag full of salt and a box. The box was made of dark wood and inlaid with pieces of shell. She turned it over, admiring the work. He was a fine craftsman, Inani.
After a moment or two she realized the meaning of the objects. They were mating gifts. Such things were given when the time for mating was over. Inani was done with her.
This soon? She felt embarrassed and insulted. Had she done something wrong? Or had Inani found another woman in his territory? Someone he found more attractive.
Nia sighed, then packed the box and the bag of salt. She laid out her gifts for Inani: a knife, a belt, and a piece of blue cloth. He would come back and find them. She saddled her bowhorn. She felt tired and a little disappointed. But the lust was gone. That was good. She mounted and rode home.
When all the women had returned to the village, Nia asked if anyone had seen Anasu. No one had.
“Don’t worry,” Hua said. “He will turn up. He isn’t one of the unlucky ones.”
Nia made the gesture of acknowledgment.
The trip north was difficult. There was rain. The herd, traveling ahead of the village, churned up the wet earth, turning it into mud. Time and time again the carts got mired. Tempers grew short. Several of the old men saddled their bowhorns and took off.
A Woman of the Iron People Page 2
