A Woman of the Iron People

by Eleanor Arnason

  “The bad luck stayed,” said Nia. “It did not seem that way at first. The summer was good. There was just enough rain. The rivers were full of fish, and the bushes had so many berries that their branches bent down till they touched the ground. We had plenty to eat.

  “At the end of the summer people came to the village out of the west. They brought tin and white fur. One of them got sick. That one died. Then our shamaness died. I got sick and so did Nuha. She was Enshi’s mother. She went crazy and cried out, ‘Enshi! Enshi!’ Then she asked the spirits to forgive her. She said it was my fault. Her son would never have done anything wrong. I had made him behave in a shameful fashion. I had made the spirits angry. She promised everyone if she died, she wouldn’t go away. Her ghost would stay in the village and find ways to get even with me.

  “She died. I got well, though I thought for a while that I would die, too. When I was able to get up and move about, the old women of the village asked me to leave.

  “Aiya! That was difficult! I asked them to let me stay. I pleaded with them. But they said, ‘Go.’

  “I went to find Enshi, and the two of us went south until we came to the Hills of Iron. They are midway between the land of summer and the winter home. The soil is red there. The streams and rivers are as brown as rust. Every year certain women go there and mine iron. They stay till fall, digging out iron and smelting it into bars. Then they rejoin the village. By the time we got to the hills, the women were packing. We hid in the bushes. They loaded their wagons. At last they were gone.

  “We found a shelter at the entrance to a mine. It was built of wood and stone, and the woman who’d built it had left some of her tools behind. We found an axe and a pick and shovel. There was an anvil as well—a big one, too heavy to carry.

  “We stayed the winter there. We almost starved. There was a child in me, but it died and came out as blood. Enshi thought his mother was responsible. He begged her to go away, and then he told her, ‘Hurt me! Hurt me! I am the one who acted shamefully.’ ”

  Nia stopped talking. I shifted position and rubbed my legs. They were getting numb.

  “In the spring we moved farther into the hills. The women came back. We stole from them. Enshi was good at this. Or at least better than I was.

  “We found a river full of fish—far back in the hills, away from everyone else. There was a cliff nearby red with iron. I made traps to catch the fish. Enshi learned how to dig out iron. We built a shelter, and I set up a forge. Nuha left us alone.” Nia frowned. “I did not feel especially ashamed. On some days it seemed to me that what we did was right. What was wrong with me?”

  I made the gesture that meant “no comment.”

  “That winter we had plenty of food. At the end of the winter I had a child. I gave her the name Hua. Enshi liked her. He held her and talked with her. At times she made him angry, but he didn’t yell or strike out. He put her down and went for a walk. He was crazy, without a doubt.”

  I turned my hand, telling her “maybe yes and maybe no.”

  “My throat is dry. Will you get me a drink?” She pointed. I went and got a jar of water. She took a big swallow. “Aiya! That is good! What was I saying?”

  “You had a child.”

  “Two. The other was a boy. Anasu. He was born in the third winter that we were in the hills. By then I was used to being alone, except for Enshi and the children. I liked it. I still do. There is too much talk in a village. Too much gossip. Too many arguments. But not in the hills. There it is quiet. Once in a while Enshi got restless and went off by himself. Sometimes I did the same thing. I liked those times the best, I think. I went up till there was nothing above me except the sky. Below me were red cliffs and deep red ravines. There were trees as well, tall ones with leaves the same color as the sky. I was above everything. I sat and listened to the wind. Then I felt contented.

  “Afterward I had to go down and help Enshi with the children.

  “This went on five winters. Then—in the spring—the crazy man came. He rode up one morning. His bowhorn was so thin that I could count every rib. As for the man, he was ragged and gray. One eye was gone. He looked terrible.

  “I was in the forge, beating out a piece of iron for a pick. Enshi was hunting. And the children—I don’t remember where they were. Near me, I guess.

  “I heard a voice. It was deep and harsh. ‘Are you ready, woman?’

  “I looked up. He dismounted and came toward me. ‘Is it time?’ he asked.

  “ ‘No,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  “He stopped and tilted his head to one side. I remember that and the look in his one eye. He was crazy. This happens to old men. They lose their territories. The younger men drive them away. But they won’t give up. They refuse to go to the village. Instead they wander by themselves. They have no place. They forget the rules and customs. They are dangerous.

  “I took a tight grip on my hammer.

  “He said, ‘Soon. Another day or so. I can tell. I used to have five women—six women—in a season. Aiya! The gifts they brought and the smell of their bodies.’

  “ ‘Go away,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you here.’

  “ ‘I can wait,’ he said. ‘I have waited a long time already. I will stay.’

  “Then I saw Enshi behind the man, his bow in his hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This woman is mine. Get out.’

  “The old man turned. ‘You scrawny little thing! Do you think you can confront me? I’ve met men twice your size. They were the ones to lower their gazes. They were the ones to turn away.’

  “Enshi lifted his bow. There was an arrow ready, fitted to the string. He began to draw the bow. ‘I will kill you, old man. I will put an arrow through your gut.’

  “The old man said, ‘This is outrageous. Don’t you know how these things are done? No true man ever uses an arrow on another man. A knife is the proper weapon. A club is all right, too. But nothing that kills at a distance. A true confrontation is up close.’

  “Enshi spoke in reply. He said, ‘I don’t care what the rules are. This woman is mine. I will do what I must to keep her.’ ”

  Nia paused for a moment. Her face looked thoughtful. “I lifted up my hammer and said, ‘I don’t care for the rules, either. If you come close to me, I will kill you, old man. Believe me. I tell the truth.’

  “What else is there to say? The old man backed down and went away. A day later the lust began. Enshi and I were together for three days. I think that is right. Maybe four days. One morning I woke. Light came in the door of our shelter. Enshi was close to me. The old man was above him. I saw him drive his knife into Enshi’s throat. Anasu cried out. I got up. But it was too late. The old man was completely crazy and strong the way that crazy people sometimes are. He was much stronger than I was, and I am not weak. He pushed me down and stuck his penis into me. I tried to get free. He hit me. The knife he was holding cut my shoulder. I still have the scar. The children were crying. Both of them. The old man made grunting noises. I bit him. He hit me again.” Nia frowned. “I dream about that sometimes. There is blood in my mouth. There is blood on the ground. I feel the old man on top of me and inside me. I hear the children cry. I know—in my dream—that Enshi is dead. After a while I wake.

  “But then I did not wake. The old man stayed until the lust was over. That was five or six days. We mated again and again.” She clenched her hands. “When we were not mating, he kept me tied. He was not stupid, even though he was crazy. He knew I would have taken the children and run. He said I was the crazy one. No ordinary woman would have told him to go away. No ordinary woman would have tried to fight him off.

  “The children got hungry. They cried. He untied me then, so I could feed them. But he would not let me bury Enshi. He dragged Enshi out of the shelter and left him to lie in the bare place outside the door. The weather was hot. Enshi swelled up. He began to stink. Bugs came and birds. When the shelter door was open, I was able to see them feeding. Hua kept saying, ‘What is wrong? What has hap
pened to Enshi?’

  “I told her to keep quiet. She would make the old man angry.

  “What else could I say? Two men had met at the time of mating. One killed the other. This did not happen often, but it wasn’t wrong. Why did I think it was wrong? Why did I hate the old man? He had the right to mate with me. He had won, though maybe not entirely fairly.

  “It was wrong that Enshi was unburied. It was wrong that the children were there. It was wrong that he tied me up. But it was not wrong that he lay on top of me and stuck his penis in me. Why did I hate him for that? It was not wrong.”

  Nia stopped talking. I waited. There was a sour taste in my mouth, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “The lust ended and he left. I buried Enshi. I fed my children and cleaned them and comforted them. Then I saddled our animals.

  “I took the children with me. I could do nothing else. Anasu I held. Hua rode on Enshi’s bowhorn. I had to tie her into the saddle. We followed the old man’s trail. It took two days.

  “I found him at the foot of the hills, at the edge of the plain. He had built his fire in the last grove of trees before the plain began. Aiya! I remember how it felt when I saw his smoke twisting up into the sky!

  “I tethered the bowhorns. I put the children on the ground and told Hua to watch her brother. I told them not to cry—I would be back soon—and went down the hill. I had a weapon now. A bow. It was the one that had belonged to Enshi. I remember the time of day. Just after sunset. The western sky was orange. The old man’s fire shone among the trees. I crept up. I saw him hunched next to the fire.” Nia paused. “I shot him in the back. He cried out and fell over. I shot him again.

  “What else is there to say? I made sure he was dead. Then I put out his fire and went back to my children. They had kept quiet—hidden in a bush, like a pair of bowhorn fawns. Aiya! How good they had been! I praised them and fed them.

  “Later I went north to the village. I left the children with Angai. By this time she was the shamaness. She told me she would raise them the right way. I could not. I went east and ended up where you met me—in the village of Nahusai.”

  Nia leaned back and closed her eyes. She must have lost weight in the last few days. Her face looked thinner than usual, and the bones were easy to make out, even under the fur. Her jaw was heavy. Her forehead was round and low. She had thick cheekbones, and there was no indentation where her nose met her forehead. It went straight up, wide and flat all the way. She opened her eyes and blinked. “Decide between us. Is Hua right? Am I a pervert?”

  I glanced up, seeking inspiration. The smoke hole was dark. Something was up there, blocking the light.

  What on earth? I stood.

  The thing moved. Sunlight came in. I could see the sky. “I’ll be back,” I said to Nia. I went out and turned.

  Like all the roofs in the village this one was covered with vegetation. The small round leaves shone in the sunlight, and there were orange flowers. Bugs fluttered over the flowers. They had yellow wings. Midway down the roof the shamaness stood. Her robe was kilted up, and I could see her legs. They were bony and hairy with big knees.

  “You listened at the smoke hole. You heard what Nia said.”

  “My eyes are bad, but my ears are the best in the village. Aiya! What a disgusting narration! I ought to make you leave today.” She went to the edge of the roof and sat down. “Help me.”

  I reached up. She dropped into my arms. She was light and she stank. It was a mixture of aromas, I decided as I set her down. Fur, musk, and bad breath. The old lady needed a dentist. I took a step back.

  “The Voice of the Waterfall said help you. So I must. That crazy man! Why didn’t he grow up the right way and go out to join his brothers? Not him, the lunatic! He had to hear voices and see things in his dreams. I go and talk with him. He dances around and jabbers. Naked, too. He’ll catch a bad cold some winter and die. Let me tell you, it’s hard to be a mother. Now, go away! The woman in there is weak. She needs to rest.”

  I opened my mouth.

  “I won’t tell her what I heard. Go! Get out!”

  I turned and walked away. Behind me the shamaness was muttering. I heard the word “perversion” and the word “disgusting.” Then she said in a loud voice, “Why do these things happen to me?”

  I kept going till I reached the house of Eshtanabai. She was sitting in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, looking sleepy and contented.

  I stopped. She looked up. “How is your friend?”

  “Better. Tell me, what is the shamaness like?”

  “Old and strange. Many people say her mind isn’t what it used to be. But she still remembers the ceremonies. She talks about the past. Old women always do. And she worries about her children. Not the daughters. They are in the village. She knows how they are getting on. She worries about the sons. She had five, and they all lived long enough to go through the change. Four are up north, if they haven’t died by now. The fifth—the youngest—you know about. He came from her last mating, when she was already getting old. Maybe that’s why he became an oracle. Old women have strange children. That is well known. Why do you ask?”

  I made the gesture that can mean anything or nothing, the gesture of uncertainty.

  “That isn’t much of an answer.” Eshtanabai got up. “Come in. I have some bara.”

  This was the native alcohol. Or—at least—the native intoxicant in a liquid form.

  “We’ll get drunk. I have nothing else to do today.” She led the way into her house.

  I followed. Why not? We sat down near the fire. It was a heap of coals. I saw a tiny red glow at the bottom of the heap. A wisp of smoke drifted up, twisting and coiling in the beam of light which shone through the smoke hole. Eshtanabai filled two bowls and gave one to me. I drank. The liquid was bitter, and it burned in my mouth. I coughed, then swallowed.

  “Drink more,” she said. She drained her cup, then refilled it. “Listen.” She leaned forward. “I think you are worried about the shamaness. She is a good woman. Old and strange, but good. But not everything that comes out of her mouth is holy. Only an oracle is holy all the time, and it’s a terrible strain. Most oracles die young. Drink some more. It will do you good. It is hard to sit and wait for someone you love to get better.”

  I drank the rest of the bara.

  Eshtanabai poured out more. “The shamaness is often holy. But at times she is a foolish old woman, who talks about her sons. We try to be polite. It isn’t easy. Last year we sent a boy out, and she got drunk. She didn’t sing the proper songs, the songs that tell the boy, ‘Be brave! You are doing what is expected!’ She sang about the woman who mated with the wind. That song is not appropriate.”

  “What is it about?”

  “You don’t know? It’s a very old story. It took place long ago, when we lived like the Amber People. Our houses were tents. We followed the herd. There was a woman who went out at the time of mating. There was a terrible storm that year. The bowhorns stampeded, and the men went after them. As a result this woman did not find a man. Her lust ended. She returned to the village. After a while it became evident that she was pregnant. Late in the winter she had a child. It was a child of the wind. No one could see the baby, and she was hard to get hold of. When she was hungry, she would go to her mother to nurse. Then the mother learned—by touching her—that the baby was a girl and covered with soft fur. But most of the time the baby was restless. She ran in her mother’s tent. She ran through the village. One day she ran out onto the plain. She never returned. Her mother knew this would happen. She made a song for the child before she left. It goes like this:

  “Hola!

  my little one.

  Hola!

  my child of the wind.

  “Now you whirl

  in my tent.

  Now you make

  the hangings flutter.

  “Soon you will be gone

  on the wide plain

  forever.

  “This
is the song the old woman sang when we sent the boy out of the village. Everyone was angry, especially the mother of the boy. A woman has many rituals in her life. A man has one: the ceremony of parting. And the old woman had ruined it. She made it a sad occasion. But what can we do? A good shamaness is hard to find. This one is excellent. She can cure almost any kind of illness. And the spirits send rain for our gardens when she asks them to. Have more to drink.”

  We drank. Eshtanabai told me about the old shamaness, the one before the one they had now. She had been greedy.

  “Aiya! She had a house full of things. The older she got the more she wanted. She asked for more than the ceremonies were worth. We gave it. We had to. No one wants bad luck or the anger of the spirits. But the spirits got angry, anyway. The ceremonies didn’t work.”

  “Why?”

  Eshtanabai frowned. “Because we gave too much. Look. I fill your cup. I’m generous. I fill it to the brim. That is a proper giving. You have enough. It makes you happy. I know you will give me something in return. That makes me happy. But if I keep pouring and the bara goes over the brim, if it gets your hand wet and spills on your clothing or the floor, that isn’t a proper giving. That is an insult and a mess.

  “A giving is a binding. But only a fool ties a strong rope to a piece of string. You must tie like to like, otherwise the knot will slip or break.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Eshtanabai blinked. “I know the spirits did not listen to that woman. Her rituals got us nothing. We found a new shamaness—one who takes what is right and gives what is right, even though she is half-crazy and talks about her sons. Here. Let me show you again.” She poured out more of the liquid. “To the brim and no more. What will you give me, o hairless one?”

  I went to my pack and got out a necklace and gave it to her. She gave me more bara. I gave her a bracelet carved out of a native wood and inlaid with the teeth of a kind of native fish. Derek had made the bracelet. He was a wonderful craftsman. By this time it was dusk. The western sky was orange-pink. One of the moons was up: a brilliant point of light. Too much was happening, I thought, and I wasn’t in control. Oh, well. I went to the back of the house and passed out on a heap of furs.