When Thira rode over, Menders plucked Katrin from the farlin’s back and settled her in her usual place on his hip.
“So you’ve been up to mischief this morning, getting up at first light and riding around bareback,” he smiled. “This is the last day the Thrun will be here, so we need to make the best of it.”
“Oh no!” Katrin said.
“They have to move on. They have a lot more trading to do before they go back home,” Menders explained. “We’ll hope they can come back next year. Since you’ll be their guest of honor this evening at the celebrations, I think a bath and your new dress might be in order. So we need to get back to the house.”
When night fell the Thrun’s fires were built up, including an enormous triangular tower made of logs. The music began and there was dancing. The women made pretty circles as they danced to slow music that sounded like smoke looked. Then the men leapt into the circle and the music turned into fire. They grabbed the women’s hands and spun them around and then the men and women separated into two lines, moving far apart and then back together to spin again.
Tharan-Tul told a story and Menders whispered the Mordanian words to Katrin. It was about how the world was made by the god called Thrun. The Thrun were the first people, so they were named after the god. They lived in a magic place at the top of the world where the fishing and hunting were good, where there were precious metals and gems and where a magical light always shone in the sky. The world became warmer and the children of the Thrun moved through it, living in many lands. There were other men who were not Thrun, who made war against them. Soon the world was full of war.
The stories were exciting, scary and terrible, all at the same time. Katrin decided that war was not good. The idea of war left her feeling cold, as if dark circles had been drawn inside her.
The Thrun were told by their god that a child with golden hair would be born who would be called Light Of The Winter Sun. The child would change the way of war to the way of peace and bring a new day to the world.
“That’s what they call me!” Katrin said as Tharan-Tul stopped speaking.
“That’s right,” Menders said, putting a hand on her hair. “Tharan-Tul wants you to go to him.”
“You come with me,” she urged, tugging Menders’ hand. She was a little afraid of Tharan-Tul, though he was very gentle when he spoke to her. He looked fierce, with bright blue eyes shining sharply in a haggard and weatherbeaten face. He had a very twisted leg that made him limp.
“No. This is something you have to do alone,” Menders smiled. “It’s all right, Snowflower. Go ahead.”
Katrin walked to the place where Tharak Karak sat on his jeweled chair with Tharan-Tul beside him. There was a small table in front of Tharan-Tul with a big leather bag on it.
When she reached them, she curtseyed in the formal Mordanian style and heard the Thrun draw in their breath with appreciation.
“It is time for me to give you a very special present,” Tharak Karak said to her. He wore clothing that looked as if it was made of gold. The firelight made all the gems on it sparkle. “You may look at all the things that are in this bag, but you may only take one for your own. It is up to you to choose the one that is best.”
Tharan-Tul opened the bag and slowly took out one sparkling strand of gems after another. He held each strand up to glitter in the firelight and then placed them one beside the other on the little table. When he was finished, he looked at her.
“Choose well, little one,” he said in his rasping voice.
Katrin clasped her hands behind her back, as she had seen Menders do, and looked at the glittering strands.
One was red and glowed like coals. She liked it very much but she wanted to look at all of them first. A blue one caught the light. It matched her eyes. There was a heavy chain of gold that looked like a snake and another chain of silver strands that twisted around and under themselves. One was yellow as sunshine and another was orange and blazed underneath with green. One strand was plain grey, the color of an old fire in the hearth on a winter’s morning and yet another was as green as the leaves in summer.
The only sound was the crackling of the fire.
Katrin looked along the row of strands again, one at a time. She picked up the red strand and held it at eye level, then put it down, then began lifting the other strands. The colors of the stones were fascinating. Red! Blue! Green! The metal chains were rich and heavy.
She was about to choose the red gems when she noticed the grey strand again, the plain one, the one nobody would really want, the only one she hadn’t picked up. She turned her head slightly, still looking at it.
Deep golden light jumped in the misty grey depths of the stones. She moved her head another way and blue flashed where the golden light had been, with green at the edges. It was like sunlight shining through grey clouds full of snow. It was like the light of the winter sun.
She picked up the grey strand.
“This one,” she said clearly, looking up at Tharan-Tul. A soft gasp went through the crowd.
“You have chosen the right one, Light Of The Winter Sun,” he said quietly.
Tharak Karak, his face split into a huge grin, stood and swept her up high over his head, turning her to the crowd.
“Light Of The Winter Sun!” he roared in his own language. The Thrun roared back.
When he’d hugged her and put her down she ran to Menders, to show him the magical fire in the dull grey stones.
Did you see? I chose the ones that aren’t pretty until you really look at them! Was that good?”
“Yes, that was very good,” Menders hugged her close but he did not smile.
Katrin was showing Hemmett the lights flashing in the stones when the music began again, a low steady drumbeat like the beating of a heart. Thump-pa, thump-pa, thump-pa! Katrin looked up and saw that Menders and Tharak Karak were alone in the dancing area, at separate corners of the wooden floor.
“What are they doing?” she asked Hemmett in a whisper. He shrugged, staring.
Tharak and Menders moved slowly toward each other in a pattern, taking turns at altering the dance steps, then mimicking each other. They stamped their feet and turned toward and then away from each other. Tharak Karak’s huge boots with the turned up toes made thumps on the floor when he stamped; Menders’ slender black shoes – that Doctor Franz called Surelian road slappers – made sharp raps when he stamped. The drum beat faster and they moved close to each other.
Suddenly they drew out long, wicked looking knives. Katrin squeaked in dismay as the firelight glinted on the blades.
Both men lunged and the knives clashed with a terrible noise. Then they were apart again, circling, stamping, moving the knives with sinuous grace, weaving golden traceries of reflected light in the smoky air. Just as soon as Katrin could see a pattern, it changed, while the drum beat ever faster. The mock fight continued, becoming more heated and frightening. She held tight to Hemmett’s hand, afraid that Menders would be cut by Tharak Karak’s whirling blade.
Then the men threw the knives so that they stuck, quivering, in the floor. They clasped hands, laced their arms together and pulled close to one another, so close there was no space between them. They turned in a circle with their arms intertwined so tightly that if one of them made a false move, both would fall.
They danced around and over the two knives at their feet, never looking down but never touching them. The drums pounded so fast that the separate beats blended together into solid sound. Then, as the two men drew so close that their bodies seemed to be one, the drums fell silent – a silence louder than the drumbeats.
Menders and Tharak Karak held the position for a moment, then embraced while the watching Thrun stamped and whistled through their teeth. Menders bowed to Tharak and then to the applauding audience before coming back to Katrin and Hemmett.
“What was that? What was it about?” Katrin asked.
“It’s the Chieftain’s Dance. It’s a story about how two rival Chie
ftains gave up fighting and became friends,” Menders told her.
Thira ran over to Katrin and tugged at her hand, beckoning. “May I go play?” Katrin asked.
“Run on, Little Princess, but when I tell you it’s time to go, it’s time to go, understood?” She put the strand of grey gems in his hand and ran away with Thira.
***
Menders woke, groaning. He’d had far too much kirz the night before, not only in the Thrun encampment, but also afterward as the household sat around and had drinks before bedtime. It was the famous Chieftain’s Reserve, potently pure. Now he had to get up and get outside so he could farewell Tharak and the Thrun.
Kirz should have a label that read WARNING: MAY CAUSE REGRET.
He rolled over leadenly and sat up, holding his throbbing head for a moment. He somehow got into his shirt and was pulling on his trousers when his senses were assailed by a strident honking in the dining room. Holding his ears, because if he didn’t his head would split in half, he advanced on the noise.
Franz was sitting upright at the table, where Cook lay unconscious with an empty glass clutched to her bosom, apparently having crawled up there to stretch out after enough celebration. Franz, wearing a pointed Thrun hat, was tooting a Thrun horn in Cook’s insensible ear.
“Gods man, stop it,” Menders groaned, confiscating the horn.
“I’m playing music for her,” Franz said, his eyes rolling. He wasn’t hung over – yet. He was still very drunk. He managed to focus on Menders.
“Go to my office. In the locked top right drawer of my desk you’ll find a pistol. The key is on top of the doorjamb. Get the pistol and keep it with you all day,” Menders said.
“What in the gods’ names for?” Franz slurred.
“Because when you finally come down off the bender you’re on, you’ll wish for a quick and merciful death.”
“Oh ha ha, most robust and jolly,” Franz retorted. “So tell me, little fellow – just who is Weaving Man?”
“Been talking to our Thrun guests, have we?” Menders replied dryly, slumping into a seat at the table. He stared dully at Cook. She began to snore.
“Weaving Man is someone in a legend and nothing more,” he finally said.
“Ha, you little liar. Ought to nick the end of your tongue with my scalpel for that one. They say you’re the Weaving Man. That you hold the threads – ‘cept you only have two yet and there should be three. Haven’t found the third, they say.”
“ The Thrun say a lot of things. That doesn’t automatically make them true.”
Franz tried to reach for the remains of his kirz, but Menders beat him to it. “Gimme drink, you little white eyed bastard,” Franz grinned.
“You’ve had enough. Sleepytime.” Menders reached over and pressed gently on a pressure point at the side of Franz’s neck. The doctor collapsed forward into slumber on the table, his hat still rakishly askew on his head.
The next to be attended to was Cook, to get that glass out of her hands before she dropped it and surrounded herself with broken glass. She clung to it and stopped snoring long enough to mutter soft expletives but he finally worked it free and returned it to the kitchen.
He looked in on Katrin, who was sound asleep, then made himself walk down the hallway to see if Zelia and Lucen were still alive. Groaning could be heard. He opened their door in time to see Hemmett holding up a small gong, for which he’d traded a cherished toy. He was preparing to hit it with a wooden mallet.
“Don’t do that, there’s far too much pain in the world already,” Menders ordered, snatching the mallet away. Lucen was dead to the world while Zelia moaned and turned away from the light coming through the window.
“I’m hungry!” Hemmett protested. At the notion of food Menders’ stomach nearly turned over.
“Bread and butter in the kitchen to hold you, then run down to the Thrun. Someone will give you breakfast,” he directed, getting hold of the gong. “No, I’m keeping the gong. No, you can’t have it right now. You can’t ring it in the house, that’s a firm rule. Go on now.”
Hemmett ran off and Menders went to his own room and hid the gong away. No-one in the house was going to be able to endure it being struck for at least two days, given they all had hangovers the size of borags.
After washing and a clean set of clothes made Menders feel human once more, he looked in on Katrin again.
She smiled and sat up, fresh as a flower.
“You’re the happiest person here,” he smiled back, sitting beside her.
“I’m sorry the Thrun are leaving,” she said. “I’ll miss Thira.” She peered at him. “Are you all right?”
“I drank too much kirz. That isn’t a good thing, but I’ll be fine soon.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m not. Unless you want soup for breakfast, I suggest we go down and get breakfast for you at the camp and then say goodbye. They’re packing up now and need to be on their way.”
The cold air did Menders good. When a Thrun woman supplied Katrin with a bowl of stew, he felt able to accept one himself. He’d yet to have the hangover that his appetite couldn’t overcome. Menders’ stomach had been likened to a steam locomotive during his schooldays. It demanded a lot of fuel and was very difficult to derail.
Tharak, looking worse for wear, was supervising the packing process, and stopped by for a bowl of stew himself.
“I’ve seen you look better,” Menders teased him.
“Ah, a good walk and I’ll be fine, eh Light Of The Winter Sun? Will you miss us?” Tharak smiled.
“Yes, I will,” Katrin said between bites. “Will you come again next winter?”
“So long as the ice bridge forms across the sea, we will come to see you,” Tharak promised. “If it is a warm, soft winter we can’t come, but so long as the winter is hard and real, we will be here.”
“You could get boats, you know,” Menders teased.
“The Thrun are not a sailing people, as well you know,” Tharak replied with a grin. He lifted Katrin onto his knee and gave her a hug.
“Keep well, little one,” he smiled. “Go and say goodbye to Thira.”
Katrin scampered away and Tharak turned back to Menders.
“Well, my friend, the first prophecy has come to pass,” he began.
Menders held up a hand to stop him.
“I don’t care to know,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to expect extraordinary things of Katrin because of a legend.”
“You know the prophecies, Aylam. You’ve heard Tharan-Tul chant them many times,” Tharak responded.
“I’ve forgotten,” Menders answered sharply, with finality. “Katrin and Hemmett deserve to grow up free of believing that the courses of their lives are predetermined. It’s going to be hard enough for Katrin because her life is so limited by her rank.”
“All right, Weaving Man,” Tharak said, sighing dramatically.
“Don’t call me that! I’m Thartan a’a’ Tharak, Magic In The Eyes,” Menders responded, anger sharpening his tone.
“You are both, the first person ever to bear two Thrun names,” Tharak answered calmly. “There will be only one other whose Thrun name will change from one to another – if the prophecies come to pass this time.” He rose and stretched, then shook Menders’ hand before enveloping him in a firm embrace.
“Take care of your children, Magic In The Eyes,” he said, stepping back.
“Hemmett isn’t mine,” Menders protested.
“Sired by you, no. Yours all the same. Sometimes children find their parents,” Tharak replied. He turned and strode away, circling the wagons and borags, bellowing out directions and orders, very much the High Chieftain.
With amazing swiftness, the Thrun formed their procession with Tharak at the head.
The enormous gong was struck, shattering the calm. Menders was ready with his hands over his ears. Distant screams of hungover agony could be heard from the house.
The garzan sounded. Tharak stepped out across the snow
and to the sound of drums and bells, the Thrun began to leave. Soon they were away up the drive, then down the road, then finally gone, leaving only the lone figure of Tharak silhouetted against the snow.
He extended both arms at shoulder level, hands toward the sky, then brought them together over his head to form a circle, fingertips touching.
Menders repeated the gesture. Tharak turned and was soon lost in the bright glare of sun on snow. An eerie stillness settled over The Shadows.
“What did that mean?” Katrin asked Menders.
“It means ‘until the circle turns again’,” Menders answered softly. “It’s how the Thrun say goodbye.”
(20)
Father and Daughter, Mother and Son
Katrin leaned close to the mirror, looking at her eyes. Eyes were suddenly of great concern to her.
Hers were blue, very blue, but that wasn’t what she was looking at. It was the shape that interested her. It was puzzling, the way her eyes were shaped. They were something like the eyes of the Thrun – not so slanted, but the same shape.
She went to look at Doctor’s eyes.
“Hello there, little one,” he smiled. “Got something for me to take care of? Boils to lance, sore throats, broken dignities?”
She laughed, peering at his eyes.
“Ah, a staredown.”
“No, I’m just looking at your eyes.” They were soft blue, not sharp blue like hers were and they were shaped like hers. She thanked him and ran down the hall to the kitchen to look at Cook’s eyes.
“And what are you looking at?” Cook laughed.
“Your eyes. They’re like mine.”
“Silly girl, my eyes are brown, yours are blue,” Cook said.
“Not the color but the shape.”
“Yes, they’re eye shaped. Here, have a cookie.”
Katrin took two and ran to Hemmett’s room.
“No girls!” he said as she looked in. He was building something. It looked like a kite.
“I have a cookie for you. I want to look at your eyes.”
Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series Page 22
