Jo Clayton - Moongather

After an eternity of climbing over rock slope, up and up, always up until Dinafar’s legs were no longer numb but burning, as if the macai’s barrel had turned to live coals, the meie rode into a narrow crack in an outthrust of rock that seemed to Dinafar the bones of earth itself thrust through its flesh. They plunged first into darkness, then into light again as they emerged; the torment eased as the macai rocked to a stop. Small hands touched her thigh. “Slide down.” The warm husky voice cut through watery waves of tiredness swamping Dinafar. “Lean toward me and let yourself go. I won’t let you fall.”

Dinafar sat swaying, unable to move farther, then she leaned out and let herself fall.

The hands caught her. For a moment she was pressed against the meie’s strong little body, then she was stretched out on cool deep grass, savoring the pleasure of being utterly still. Hands straightened her legs and pulled her skirt down. A damp cloth passed across her face, then down her arms. She opened her eyes.

The meie was kneeling beside her, the haunted look back in her eyes. It vanished as soon as she saw that Dinafar was watching her. She smiled. “Good. You’ll feel better in a little.” She moved on her knees along Dinafar’s body until she was kneeling at her feet.

Dinafar had never worn shoes; she knew her feet were scarred and ugly and dirty. She tried to pull them away, but the meie took them in her hands, her surprisingly strong hands; she ignored the dirt, the broken nails, the cuts and scrapes, the thick horn on the soles, and began manipulating first the ankle then the toes. Dinafar gasped with pain, then sighed with pleasure as some of the grinding soreness passed from her legs. After a moment she started to become acutely uncomfortable as the meie continued to massage her calves.

The meie looked up. “Don’t worry, child.” She sounded amused. The orange-gold eyes were twinkling at Dinafar. “No matter what you’ve heard about us, I’m not trying to seduce you.”

Dinafar knew from the heat and tightness in her face that she was blushing scarlet. She stammered, “I’m not… mm…”

The meie smiled. “Relax, Dina. She continued to work on Dinafar’s knotted calf muscles until she’d worked out most of the soreness and stiffness, then she stood and stretched, finally looked down. “That better?”

Dinafar sat up. “Yes.” She pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them and examined the place with considerable curiosity.

She was sitting in the center of a tiny lush valley almost like a deep hole in the rock. The turf under her was cool and green, thick-set blades of short springy grass. By one wall a spring bubbled clear, cold water into a pool that never seemed to fill. Above the spring, carved with some delicacy into the living stone, was a great-eyed figure, generously female but obviously not human. “Who is she?”

The meie glanced, at the carving. “The Maiden,” she said quietly. “As the creasta shurin see her. This is a shrine-place.”

“Creasta shurin?” Dinafar frowned. “I thought they were just children’s tales.”

The meie laughed. “No, that they most certainly aren’t.” She unbuckled her weaponbelt and let it fall beside Dinafar. “Just shy and content to be unnoticed.” She unclipped her bow and set it down more carefully, laying it on the belt to keep it off the grass. “For very good reasons they keep away from men, too many of them have been killed for their pelts, but they are allied to the Biserica so a shuri should answer my call. We need a guide to show us the quickest and easiest way through the mountains; Maiden bless, the Kapperim don’t usually come above the treeline.” She shook her head then, looking troubled. “Can’t count on that, I’m afraid. Nothing holds the way it should this year.” She glanced at the carved figure. “I don’t understand what’s happening.” She shook her head. “No matter. In a little while I’ll call a shuri and see what problems the mountains will present us with.”

“Already?” Dinafar was dismayed; she’d thought they were settled for a while, this mountain cup felt safe and her body rebelled at the thought of climbing back on the macai.

The meie got to her feet and started toward the beasts who were grazing placidly not far from them. “I’m sorry, Dina, but I warned you. I’m pushed for time, I…” She sighed, shrugged. “You’ll have to keep up as best you can.” But when Dinafar started to get up to help her with the gear, the meie stopped her. “Rest now, you’ve got a hard night ahead of you.”

When the macain were stripped, the meie brought her saddlebags to the edge of the pool, knelt on the grass and started digging in one of them. She pulled a round loaf from the bag, glanced at Dina who lay sprawled comfortably on the grass watching her. “Catch.” The loaf landed with a little bounce on Dinafar’s stomach. She giggled and sat up. The meie dug farther and tossed over a parcel of fish paste. “Make us a sandwich; careful of this one.” She lobbed a long-bladed knife to Dinafar, It landed with its handle toward her, a foot from her hand. “This too.” The meie threw a tin cup to Dinafar and jumped to her feet, a flat pan in her hand. She nodded at the pool. “Good water.” For a moment she stood frowning; her fingernails clicking against the bottom of the pan. “I’ll get us some brambleberries. There’s a vine over there.” She nodded her head at the bramble web climbing the rock in a mist of green and purple.

Dinafar caught the cup, gazed at it, then at the meie as she searched through the leaves for the berries, dropping them like purple rain into the pan. Her fingers trembled. The fishers wouldn’t let her touch anything they ate from. She’d drunk from an old cracked mug that she washed herself and hid from children’s malice. Some of the boys broke her things whenever they could find them. She’d eaten from a wooden dish flung at her head, using a warped horn spoon she’d scavenged from the midden behind the Intii’s Hall. She’d been beaten for that, for having dared to touch it without begging permission-begging. They let her keep it, since it was already defiled by her touch. She looked down at the meie’s drinking cup, shared so casually, down at the loaf of bread and the fish paste and the knife. She set the cup gently aside and picked up the knife.

The meie came back, the pan heaped with berries. She took the sandwich from Dinafar, cut it in half, took half and raised her eyebrows at the empty cup. Her eyes searched Dinafar’s face, then she took the cup, filled it at the pool and brought it back. “Drink,” she said. There was pain in her face; Dinafar lowered her eyes, uneasy; the meie read her too deeply. “Drink,” the meie repeated softly.

Dinafar took the cup in shaking hands and sipped at the water. She handed it back to the meie who deliberately turned it and touched her lips to the spot on the rim where Dinafar’s mouth had been. She drank, then dropped onto her knees. Saying nothing-no words were needed-she placed the cup halfway between them and wriggled from her knees to a cross-legged comfort on the grass. She picked up her half of the sandwich and began eating.

Dinafar hesitated. She tried to trust what she saw, but the years of conditioning made it hard. Her body was stiff as she reached for a handful of berries, then began eating the sandwich. She reached awkwardly for the cup to wash down a mouthful of bread suddenly too dry. She drank, her hands shaking, water spilling from her lips, embarrassing her. She carefully wiped the rim of the cup against her sleeve, then drew her arm across her mouth. When she looked up, the meie was smiling gravely at her.

“Go gently, child,” the meie said. The quiet understanding in her face should have soothed Dinafar’s unease, but instead stirred her anger. It was an intrusion into places where the meie had not been invited. The meie shook her head. “Relax and accept what you can. You have to learn. There are no castes at the Biserica.” She watched Dinafar a moment longer then settled into a physical tranquility that was curiously infecting.