Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

What had drawn her eyes was an earthenware bottle. It was wide-mouthed and its cover had been removed to show its contents. How such an object had turned up in this cargo, and moreover, how the present owner had obtained it, she could not guess. Somehow she could not believe that the seller knew what she was offering, for it was a woman tending this trestle table. The contents of that jar were a door into the past—though to the eye the jar was filled with sand—red-gold sand—seemingly as fine ground as dust. Such sand she knew—such sand had changed her life and opened a door upon the world for her.

“Xactol!” she whispered. Did or did not that sand stir a little? Or was it only her wish that made it seem so? “Sand sister.”

She jerked at a silver bangle on her thin wrist. It was all she could think of now for exchange. The woman looming over her had put down a full gold piece out of Estcarp for a length of dull blue and rust red weaving and a set of carven wooden bowls. Now the stall keeper was looking to her.

“Your jar.” Trusla pointed so there would be no mistake.

The stall keeper picked it up, turning it this way and that. “Out of Estcarp—well fired, can be used at the hearthside if you wish. The sand…” She must have caught Trusla’s glance; the girl feared spillage due to the other’s quick movements. “That is nothing. The dealers there pack them so against breakage. Two silver twists, Lady.”

She was studying Trusla closely now, seeming to have noted for the first time that Trusla was a stranger, not a townswoman.

“I give this.” The fen girl held out her bangle. It was surely worth more than two twists of that silver wire which the traders used for small transactions. Then she thought that the woman was eyeing her almost with suspicion and she added hastily, “Such are made in my village.” She was improvising. “I find it here to be a lucky matter.”

Now the woman grinned. “Ah, don’t we need all the luck we can draw to us, Lady? It is yours.” But she was quick enough to drop the bracelet into her money pouch. “Here”—she reached down into a box beneath the table—“you need the rest of your luck, or what you hope to hold can run out with the first dip.” She slapped down on the table a round of smoothed wood which was plainly meant to cork the jar and Trusla speedily put it into place.

Holding her prize tightly, she made her way through the crowd and back to the warehouse-inn. Simond was off with the captain and their map, but for the moment she was very glad she was alone.

Settling down on one of the two stools their small alcove held, she loosed the hide curtain and let it fall into place to give privacy. The jar she placed with care on the other stool, as she had no table. Her hand went to loosen that cover and then she let it fall instead to the top of the stool. For the moment she did not want to prove herself right or wrong, she just called on memory.

There had been a shelving floor of such sand under the moon and that sand had moved, given birth to one whom Trusla sometimes saw fleetingly in dreams and had always longed to see again. Xactol—sand sister—that one had named herself, and in Trusla she had awakened knowledge that there was indeed a need for one who was unlike her companions. Since then Trusla had made small experiments on her own—very carefully.

When she had returned with Simond, each saving the other from certain death, the witches had wished to test her, for being Tor and apart, they thirsted to know what powers or talents those of her race might have. But the witches were no longer all-powerful and already she had mated with Simond, thus destroying most of her value to them. But inside she was sure that her sand sister had awakened more than Trusla could understand.

She remembered one day when she and Simond had gone fishing (or he had fished and she had explored the small island they had chosen) and she had discovered a stretch of silver-gray sand. It had not held the same feeling for her, yet it drew her to it.

On its surface she had drawn—designs she had not remembered she knew, though she was a weaver. And the designs had sent her into a sort of dream in which she had done something which had great meaning. But when she had roused again at Simond’s call, the sand was bare of any marking and of the dream she remembered only that feeling of accomplishment.

Now—if it were true that she held in this jar sand out of Tor, what might she do?

“Trusla!” Simond’s voice drew her back into the here and now. She saw the curtain sway at his touch, but she knew he would not enter without her bidding. Swiftly she transferred the jar into her own pack. Why she must keep this secret she could not say—only that for now it was hers alone.

She swept aside the curtain and Simond stood smiling widely. He kissed her cheek and then threw himself on the bunk, his legs stretched out, one arm reaching for Trusla to draw her to his side.

“No more hammers, no more mud, no more sawing.” He made a kind of chant out of it. “The Wave Cleaver is loaded and shipshape, as the captain says. With the dawn we can be off again away from this mud pie and off to do what we are meant to do.”

Trusla could understand his excitement and she was careful to try to equal it. But she feared she would never make a good sea rover. The cramped cabin was so small that this alcove seemed a lord’s hall when she stole a look around. Luckily only yesterday she had washed and freshened with dried herbs almost all of the clothing except what they now wore. And Simond had spent hours burnishing their mail coats and making sure their weapons were keen of edge.

His smile had faded a little and there was an anxious note in his voice as he continued, “There is this, heart holder. Because of the addition of the Latts to our party, our quarters will be changed. I shall have a hammock with this Odanki in the mate’s quarters and the shaman will come with you.”

She should have expected something like this. Frost, by reason of her rank, had a hastily constructed cubby off the captain’s main cabin and the rest of them would have to make what room they could.

“The Latt woman seems one of goodwill.” Simond had sat up again now and was watching her. “Were it instead that wisewoman whom Mangus gives ear to now.”

Trusla laughed. “Were it so, I think I should choose to walk—there is the shore and later maybe ice thick enough to bear one up. Yes, I think that the Latt will be a good cabin mate. Only…” Now she threw her arms around him tightly. “It will not be Simond to keep me warm at night!”

“My loss also, dear one. Now—let us see to the packing.” But his return embrace and the hoarseness of his voice was a small comfort she could cherish.

Their sailing out of Korinth was certainly not a quiet and unnoted one. The green-robed drummer led a procession of women who whistled and moaned, and made sounds so close to enraged waves that Trusla could close her eyes and believe the sea already washed about them.

Not to be outdone by the invoking of Sulcar powers and good fortune, the Latt party was nearly as great. But here it was the men who chanted, waving spears and axes as if challenging to battle. Their chosen champion had added a sword to one of the packs he shouldered. From the second one fluttered feathers and Trusla guessed that that held the possessions of the shaman. Cuddled in the left arm of the woman was a small furry shape which moved, turning a round head constantly as if it would see everything as quickly as possible.

The Latts knelt and raised a keening cry—one which could touch even those not of their race. Then they deliberately arose and turned their backs, though still they stood in ordered ranks, as if they must not look upon the withdrawal of the shaman and her champion.