Robert Adams - A Woman of the Horseclans

As the time to begin the feast neared, clansfolk of both sexes and all ages packed into the sweat yurt, but not Bettylou Hanson; the knowledgeable Ehstrah had seen to it that she, Ilsah and Gahbee had completed their ablutions well in advance of the rest. And when the three returned to the Morai yurt, Bettylou had been given back her red dress.

She could only stare and stutter, barely recognizing the garment, for what had been back at the Abode of the Righteous a badge of Sin and Shame and a portent of certain Doom had lost every last iota of that identity and become a purely and a thoroughly Horseclans garment.

The faded-red dress had been redyed a deep crimson, and the floppy, open-cuffed sleeves had been somehow made fuller and fitted with drawstrings at the wrists. Head hole and sleeves and a large expanse of the rest of the reborn garment were now rich and heavy with Ehstrah’s fine, meticulous embroidery; she also had used embroidery to conceal the stitches with which each tear and rent had been closed. Bettylou had never before been in receipt of anything so lovely, not in all her short life, for the garb of all of the Righteous was unremittingly drab—unbleached wool and linen and a mixture of the two, unadorned leather or rawhide. Unable to contain herself, she felt tears rolling down her cheeks still damp from the bath and irresistible sobs welling up from deep within her.

Ehstrah—with grown children older than Bettylou by her now-deceased first husband, and just then feeling very motherly—hunkered down beside the sobbing girl and took her into her arms. Bettylou tried, between sobs, to thank Ehstrah and the others for all their many kindnesses to her since her arrival in the camp.

“No, no, child,” soothed Ehstrah silently, “at such times as this mindspeak is far better, easier.”

She slipped into the girl’s mind, briefly … and started as if she had been stabbed suddenly. “ Milo! ” Her mindcall lanced out. “Uncle Milo! Come to your lodge at once! Urgent!”

“Whew!” exclaimed Milo. “I’m very glad this happened when it did, glad that we could show the poor child’s mind how to purge itself thoroughly, once and for all, of all the filth and perverted religion her kinfolk had shoveled into it. Such a load of mental and emotional sewage would have ended in driving her mad, It will be at least two hours more until everyone is gathered out their, so let her sleep until the last minute, eh? It will do her good.”

Ehstrah nodded, fingering one of her small arm-daggers and musing darkly, aloud, “If only I could have ten minutes, even five, alone with that priest, that Elder Claxton. the randy old goat, the child-raping bastard, he’d forever after lack the parts to do to another the evil he wrought upon this helpless girl. Milo … ? Do you think …”

Skimming her surface thoughts, he shook his head. “Put it out of your mind, Ehstrah. There am not enough of us—warriors, maiden-archers and matrons, included—to attack that place with a bare hope of success, They have weapons and artifacts from the time before this with which they could kill at great distances, at much farther away than even the heaviest bow can cast. To succeed against those Dirtmen would take at least a dozen clans and would result in many, many dead Horseclansfolk for little loot that would be of use to us in the type of life we lead. The best thing we can do is avoid the Abode of the Righteous and pass on the word that other Kindred clans should follow suit.”

Ehstrah sighed and grudgingly sheathed her dagger. “Of course you are right. Uncle Milo—you must be, for you have seen far more of war than have I … or any man or woman in this camp, for that matter. But … but it galls me that a despicable man like that should go on, year in, year out, causing untold sufferings, and go forever unpunished.”

“No,” replied Milo. “I agree that it doesn’t seem right or proper, Ehstrah, but most likely this priest is as much a victim as are his prey. Both he and they were probably reared into the same perverted religious beliefs. They don’t know that what they are doing, that the way they are living, is wrong. They call themselves the Righteous, and I’m sure they firmly believe that, all of them, else—being human—they’d long since have deposed these Elders and Patriarchs.”

He rose to his feet. “Now, I think I should complete my sweat and my wash.”

Ehstrah looked up at him from beneath her thick brows, grinning provocatively. “Don’t go overeating or drinking at the feast, Honored Chief. Gahbee and Ilsah and I. we have firm plans for you tonight.”

Bettylou’s first sight of Chief Dik Krooguh repelled her. He was short—shorter even than his nephew, short even by the standards of his race of short men—bandy-legged and physically incomplete. He lacked an eye, and part of both ears and was otherwise hideously scarred-by his lifetime of warring, raiding and hunting dangerous beasts. But he was jolly, warm of manner, and his ready laughter had boomed right often over the length and the breadth of the feasting ground throughout the most of the celebration.

With the feasting generally done—warriors, women. children, even slaves stuffed to repletion and far beyond with food—the little chief arose from his place and approached Bettylou where she sat between Milo and Ehstrah. He moved with a rolling gait, and that, combined with his somewhat garish clothing and personal adornments, might have served to give him a comic appearance save for the unmistakable air of calm dignity which he effortlessly bore about him like a cloak of state.

The wrinkled hand with which he took her arm and assisted her to arise was lacking all of one finger and parts of two others, but still was possessed of a crushing though well-controlled strength. He led her slowly, wordlessly, to a spot where the maximum numbers of the assembled folk could see her, then mindcalled Tim Staiklee of Krooguh, who carefully wiped off greasy lips and chin, arose from his place and strode to his uncle’s side, trying hard not to grin.

Chief Dik cleared his throat and spoke aloud for the benefit of those whose mindspeak was minimal or nonexistent, although he also continued to beam his message silently. Milo had explained how unusual and valuable this flexibility was, had explained it on the day he had discovered to his pleased surprise that, with training, Bettylou would one day be capable of speaking orally and mindspeaking at one and the same time.

Smiling broadly, Chief Dik said, “Kindred, this child was captured of the Dirtmen by Tim in the very raid we are here to celebrate. Although born of Dirt and reared to it”—he patted Bettylou’s belly lightly with his multilated hand—“any man or woman or cat or horse can easily see that she most assuredly is fertile. She has broad hips and heavy teats, nor is her face at all ill to look upon; moreover, she has mindspeak.”

At this last, there was an appreciable murmur from the assembly. Few Dirtmen of any description or type seemed to have even a trace of telepathic abilities; indeed, a third or more of born Kindred never owned enough mindspeak to benefit them or their clans.

Djahn Staiklee, Tim’s father, arose and demanded, “But do we know anything of the sire of the babe she carries. Dik?”

The short man just shrugged. “Uncle Milo says that he was the paramount chief of this particular batch of Dirtmen. Djahn. It’s about four days ride northeast, if you’d care to go and inquire into his Dirtman pedigree.” He grinned mischievously.

“But what matter such trivialities, say I. The chit’s babe will be reared with us, by us, to be one of us, I have no sure knowledge who my own sire was … nor do I particularly care, for I do know for certain who my mother was. This girl’s child will feel the same way.”