A Woman of the Iron People

by Eleanor Arnason

  In the morning I went back to the house of the shamaness. Nia was sitting up, eating a bowl of mush. “Why are you having trouble walking?” she asked me.

  “I did a stupid thing. Oh, my head!” I sat down.

  “You did not come back yesterday.”

  “The shamaness told me you needed rest.” Nia looked blurry. I rubbed my eyes.

  “You didn’t give me an answer.” Nia set down her bowl. There was a blob of mush in the bottom. She picked it up with one finger and put it in her mouth. “Am I right? Or is Hua right?”

  “What?”

  “Am I a pervert?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “How do I know? I can tell you this: People have different customs. There are places where men and women live together the way you and Enshi did. There are places where the people would say what the old man did to you was terrible.”

  “Hu!” said Nia. “Where are these places?”

  “A long way from here.”

  “Maybe someday I will go to a place like that.”

  I said nothing. My headache was getting worse, and I was having trouble concentrating.

  Nia scratched her nose. “But maybe I wouldn’t like a place like that.”

  “Maybe not.”

  In the evening I went to the river. It was hot and muggy there. The air was full of bugs. I made a call to Eddie and told him the story of Enshi.

  “Interesting. They seem to have invented monogamy. Nia and Enshi, I mean.”

  “And the old man invented rape.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t say anything for a minute or two. Rape was a subject that made most men nervous. Finally he said, “We’ve done another satellite survey. There are no cities. Not one. According to Tony, this makes sense. The men can’t survive in an urban area. And the men have to be close to the women. Otherwise mating would be difficult, maybe impossible. The whole species is stuck in a pre-urban stage of development. They always will be.”

  A bug flew up my nose. I snorted and coughed. A second bug flew in my mouth. I spat it out. “Eddie, I can’t stay here. There are bugs all over.”

  “Okay. Harrison says to ask about warfare. He doesn’t think it exists on this planet.”

  “Okay.” I ran to the village. The gate was shut. I had to yell and bang on the wood till someone came along and let me in.

  The next day I talked to Eshtanabai. She had never heard of organized violence. “How could such a thing happen? Sometimes, when two men meet, they both refuse to back down. Then they fight. And there are crazy women who quarrel with their neighbors. But no one will side with a quarrelsome woman. And no one will ever side with a man.”

  Hm, I thought. I was on a planet without war or cities or sexual love. Was this good or bad? I didn’t know.

  Eshtanabai held out a bowl. “Have bara. Let’s drink and talk about something that makes sense.”

  After a while I asked, “Why do you have walls around your village?”

  “There are animals on the plain. Killers. They follow the herd. And when the herd comes south, they prowl around. They look for anything that can be eaten. Garbage. Children. The wall is to keep them out.”

  “Aiya!”

  “Also, we like walls. We feel more comfortable when we look around and see we are enclosed.”

  That made sense to me. I had grown up on an island. The wide ocean did not bother me, but I had never been entirely happy with the middle-American plain. There was too much of it. I did not feel comfortable standing on a piece of land that went on—apparently—forever.

  We talked about other things. I stayed more or less sober. Eshtanabai got obviously fuzzy. Did she have a problem with the intoxicant? If so, why? The strain of being a go-between? Or was there some other problem, psychological or physical, about which I knew nothing?

  We slept. I woke to sunshine. Nia came to visit me, limping and leaning on a staff.

  “I am ready to go,” she said. “This place is making me restless, and the shamaness is giving me some very odd looks.”

  “You’re barely able to walk,” I said.

  “I know what to do about that. Don’t plan on staying here much longer.”

  She limped away. I went to the house next door. There was an old lady there who knew everything there was to know about kinship. Or so my host had told me.

  Late in the afternoon Nia came back. I was sitting outside, next to the old lady. She was explaining the obligations between sisters and the children of sisters.

  Nia stopped and leaned on her staff, a rough piece of wood. The bark was still on it, and a twig stuck out near the top. “We go tomorrow. I gave my tools to the coppersmith. She gave me two bowhorns. We can ride.”

  The old lady frowned. “You are interrupting me. I was about to explain who gives gifts to a boy when he is ready to leave the village. This person without hair is amazing. She knows nothing about anything. But she is willing to listen, and she doesn’t interrupt.”

  Nia made a barking noise. “I will go. But be ready, Li-sa. I want to leave at dawn.” She limped away.

  The old lady finished her explanation. I gave her a necklace made of wooden beads. The wood came from an island in the western ocean, a cold and rainy place that reminded me of Ecotopia in North America. It—the wood, not Ecotopia—was red and had a fine grain, full of twists and coils. The polished surface glimmered.

  “Aiya!” the old lady said. “This will impress everyone.” She put the necklace on.

  I went back to the house of Eshtanabai. My host was out—working on her garden, I decided. I sat down. In time she returned.

  “You are leaving.”

  I made the gesture of assent.

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “The shamaness is angry. If you stay, there will be a quarrel—a bad one. There is nothing worse than an angry shamaness.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I thought for a moment. “What happened to the old shamaness? The greedy one? She must have been angry when you found someone to replace her.”

  “She was furious. But she had no power. The spirits had stopped listening to her. She went off onto the plain. Most likely she died. Or found another village.” Eshtanabai sounded completely uninterested.

  They were a cool people. Was it because they did not love the way we did? Then I remembered Hakht and Nia. Neither one was cool.

  “Tonight we will eat well,” said Eshtanabai. “Fish from the river and a fat bird. Tomorrow I will give you food for the trip.”

  “Thank you.”

  We did eat well. The fish were stuffed with vegetables and roasted. The bird was made into a stew. We drank plenty of bara. People came to visit and stare at me. The old lady from next door showed off her necklace. One of Eshtanabai’s children played a flute. Another beat on a drum. All at once Eshtanabai jumped up. She grabbed a branch from the fire and whirled it around her head. Then she ran out of the house. The rest of us followed. Out in the street my host was dancing, turning, and waving her torch. The other women shouted, “Hola!” The two children kept playing flute and drum. Eshtanabai sang in her language, which I did not understand. She strutted back and forth. The other women made gestures of agreement and affirmation.

  What was going on? I looked around. Nia was leaning against the wall of a house. Her arms were folded, and she was frowning.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you the words, but I know what they mean. She is bragging. She is saying, ‘I am wise. I am prudent. I can settle every quarrel.’ She is telling them, ‘I am generous. You have eaten my food. I have found a way to get rid of these strange people, who have made everyone uneasy. You see all the good that I do for you.’ This is what she is saying.”

  It was a political speech. I watched with interest. More torches appeared. Everyone was dancing now, except for me and Nia. Children climbed up on top of the houses. They leaped amid the foliage and shouted. Eshtanabai kept up her chant.

  After a while Ni
a said, “The Copper People are always the same. They always make too much noise. I am going to bed.” She limped off.

  The party broke up an hour or so later. All the food and drink was gone. Eshtanabai had said everything she had to say. We all went to bed. At dawn Nia came and shook me awake. I groaned and rolled over.

  “Come on,” said Nia.

  I stumbled off to the privy. When I got back, Eshtanabai was up. I gathered my belongings. She gave me a bag of food.

  “Good-bye, hairless one.”

  I answered with the gesture of parting, followed by the gesture of gratitude.

  Nia said, “Come on.”

  I followed her out. At the moment the air was cool, but it had the feel of a summer morning in Minnesota or Wisconsin. The day would be hot. Nia led me through the village. She didn’t have the staff, and she was having trouble walking. In the end I helped her. We reached the gate. She opened it. We went out. Off to the east the sun was rising, hidden by the village. Its light filled the sky. There were two animals tethered by the gate: quadrupeds—and herbivores, I was almost certain. They had long legs and wide chests. Their tails were deerlike. Their horns were narrow and curved like the horns of antelopes. One jerked its head and snorted. The other stamped a foot.

  “These are bowhorns,” Nia said. “They are in good enough shape, though one is getting old. I can’t say much about the saddles. They ought to last until we get wherever we are going.”

  She untied one animal and mounted. I hesitated, then untied the other animal. It moved.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I put a foot in the stirrup, grabbed onto the saddle, and pulled myself up. The animal moved again, taking a step and tossing its head. Somehow I managed to get into the saddle, but I dropped the bag of food.

  “You don’t know how to ride,” said Nia.

  “Not well.”

  She swung her leg over the saddle and stepped down, as easily and casually as if she were stepping off a curb. As she reached the ground, she winced and groaned. She muttered to herself and reached for the bag. A moment later she was back on top of her animal. “This is going to be a long trip,” she told me.

  Derek

  We forded the river. On the other side Nia found a trail. We followed it up the bluff and over, onto the plain. In front of us the trail led toward the western horizon.

  “Who made it?” I asked.

  “Women. The ones who take gifts to the Amber People and bring gifts back.” Nia slapped the reins. Her animal started forward. My beast followed, and I shifted position, trying to get comfortable.

  The day came through on its promise of heat. Our animals ambled west. Nia was quiet and I spent my time looking. There wasn’t much to see. The plain was almost featureless. The sky was clear. I saw no animals except bugs.

  At noon we stopped and dismounted. I did stretching exercises, then drank from Nia’s water bag. The water was warm and had a funny taste.

  “How are you?” Nia asked.

  “Sore. But I can keep going.”

  “That’s good.” She drank and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I hurt, too. I have not ridden for years. We’ll stop early tonight.”

  Late in the afternoon we stopped by a low mound. I dismounted and stretched and groaned.

  “I will take care of the animals,” Nia said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “It’s evident that you know nothing about bowhorns.”

  I made the gesture of agreement and went up on the mound. Above me a single bird moved in a great slow circle. I did my exercises, then meditated. I was so stiff that I could barely get into a half-lotus position.

  Nia finished with the animals and wandered off. She came back with her arms full of stuff. It was round and gray and crumbly.

  “Dung,” she told me. “It’s left from the spring, when the herds came through.”

  She built a fire, using the dung as fuel. We ate dinner: bread and a piece of meat that looked and tasted like leather. When we had finished we sat and watched the fire.

  I asked her about her ankle.

  “It hurts. So do my other injuries.” She paused. “I have felt worse. I will survive.”

  The word she used meant “last,” “keep,” “remain usable,” “not wear out.”

  “Good.” I glanced at the mound. It seemed unnatural to me. Artificial. What was it doing all by itself in the middle of the plain? “Where did that come from?” I pointed.

  “I don’t know. It was not built by animals. It’s too big. Maybe by women. Or demons. The spirits do not build.” She sounded uninterested. Did her people lack a sense of history? Or was she tired?

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Nia frowned. “Is there a place you want to go?”

  “Another village. I want to learn more words and customs.”

  “The people to the west of here all travel, and their villages are in the north right now. But if we keep going we ought to be able to meet the Iron People when they come south.” She paused. “It has come to me that I would like to see my children.”

  “Those people drove you off. Aren’t they likely to do that again?”

  “They might, if I came to them alone. But you are a stranger. Who could possibly be more strange? And they know—better than the Copper People do—what is owed to strangers.”

  “What?” I asked.

  She looked surprised. “Food. A place to sleep. Help, if help is needed. Stories and gifts. It is never right to drive a stranger off, unless he is violent.”

  “But it’s all right to drive off a member of the village?”

  “Yes. What harm can be done by someone who is passing through? If a traveler has unusual ideas, that is to be expected. If she behaves oddly, she’ll be gone soon enough. But if a villager is perverted or quarrelsome or crazy … Hu! That is a serious problem!”

  Wonderful reasoning. I grinned.

  “You are showing your teeth,” said Nia. “Are you angry?”

  “No. My people show their teeth when they are happy.”

  “Aiya! The Iron People will certainly let us in!”

  The next day was like the first one, and the third day like the second. The weather remained hot and clear. The plain continued flat and covered with pseudo-grass, which had not changed either. It remained about a meter tall, green and blue-green and yellow. The dominant form of animal life was bugs. They fluttered and whirred all around us.

  What was the story?

  A bishop asked a biologist, “What have your studies taught you about the Creator?”

  The biologist replied, “He has an inordinate love of bugs.”

  After four days we came to a new kind of vegetation: a bright green plant that looked like grass or pseudo-grass, except that it was five meters tall. It formed a wall that went north and south as far as we could see.

  “There’s water here,” said Nia. “This stuff grows at the edge of rivers.”

  We rode north along the barrier. There was no way through. The stalks grew too close together, and the leaves had rough edges.

  “They cut,” said Nia. “This is what I wanted.” She reined her animal and pointed. “A path.”

  We dismounted. I groaned as usual, but the pain was getting less. Nia went down the path. I followed, leading my animal. It crowded me. It must have smelled water. “Stop that!” I slapped the creature’s nose. It snorted.

  “Be quiet,” said Nia. “You can never tell what is waiting for you at a river.”

  The vegetation ended. We were on the riverbank. In front of us a narrow trickle wandered over a wide sandy bed. On the far side was more of the monster grass. Downstream was a pool.

  “Aiya!” said Nia.

  A man stood in the pool. He was naked, and he had no fur. His skin was brown. His long hair was blond. On his back was a tattoo: a complex geometric pattern. It represented the cosmic forces in and around the Gray Whale. It—the whale or rather the pattern of the wh
ale—was the totem of his lodge. Maybe I ought to use his terminology. It was the mandala of his eco-niche.

  He had a fishing rod, and he was casting with all his usual skill.

  “I have a question for you,” said Nia. “Do you know what that is?”

  “A person. A friend of mine.”

  He glanced around and pulled in his line, then waded to shore. His beard and his pubic hair were reddish brown. On his chest and arms were initiation scars. The rod he carried was handmade. It was long—extremely long, and it didn’t have any reel.

  “How is it?” I asked in English.

  “The fishing rod? Not good.” He grinned. “But I have fish.” He laid the rod down. “You are Nia,” he said in the language of gifts. “I am Derek. My tribe is the Angelinos. The house I belong to is the house of—” He paused for a moment. “The big fish. The name I got for myself is He Who Fights in the Sea. And I had better tell you, I am a man.”

  “I thought you might be,” Nia said. “Though it is hard to be certain about anything when dealing with people who are so different. Are you holy? Like the Voice of the Waterfall? Is that why you are naked?”

  “No. I’ll be back.” He went off along the river, moving quickly, out of sight in a minute.

  Nia looked at me. “I didn’t really believe there were other people like you. I thought you were something peculiar, like the young our does have now and then. They have five legs or two heads. We kill them, and the shamaness performs ceremonies to avert bad luck.”

  Derek returned wearing jeans. His hair was pulled back and fastened at the nape of his neck. He had on a necklace made of shells and pieces of bone and a metal pendant. It was the same kind I wore, an AV recorder.

  As usual, he looked graceful and barbarous. He had a Ph.D. in anthropology, and he was a full professor at the University of San Francisco, on leave at the moment, of course. A rather lengthy leave. He wouldn’t be back for another 120 years, at the earliest.

  “Now for the fish.” He went to the river and pulled out a stringer. There were six fish on it: long, narrow, and silver-gray. He held them up. They twisted and flapped their tails. “You take care of your animals. I’ll take care of mine.”