Jo Clayton - Moongather

The chant died to a murmur as the Daughter and her maidens came through the Door and mounted the Dais, a veiled grey figure flanked by silver maids; waiting in silence as the families around the columns rose and placed lit candles in holders high up on the columns. Thousands of candles. The Temple glowed with flickering golden lights as the clouds gathered overhead in the final Moongather Storm. The shadows danced as hands rose and fell. The Daughter began the Moongather chant, wheeling slowly, lifting high the silver Sword of the Maiden, the slender blade catching and throwing back the candle glow.

For Dinafar the evening dissolved in a glory that lifted her high again, made her one with the great chanting crowd until it seemed to her the Maiden stooped from the shimmer of the moons as the clouds broke apart to reveal the Gather itself swimming over them, that the Maiden Herself stooped from the Gather and brushed her cheek as the meie had done, touched her cheek in a tender blessing and a welcome.

When Dinafar came out of her daze, the families were gathering their belongings and moving off. Lightning was beginning to flicker and gusts of wind were blowing out the candles. The Moongather was complete, the moons going now into Scatter. She was suddenly cold. It was very late and Coperic was probably worried about her, the meie too-if the meie had come back. She got stiffly to her feet then touched the hand of the nearest Maiden figure. “Keep her safe,” she murmured.

A few pilgrims were settling for an all-night vigil, but the rest were pouring out of the Temple, anxious to avoid as much of the storm as they could. Dinafar hesitated. She could stay here too. She stretched and twisted, her body sore, her stomach empty. Stay until she starved. She sighed, then began working her way into the middle of the stream of departing pilgrims. She passed through the gate, hidden from the watching Sleykynin-two of them now, though the Sons and the Followers were gone-by a large fat woman herding a batch of giggling girls. With rain splashing down around them, they bustled off, Dinafar with them until she was sure the Sleykynin had missed her; she turned into a side street when she was far enough from the Temple and began working her way back to the tavern.

The alleys she traversed were dark and silent-and empty. The rain was coming down in sheets. She splashed through puddles, her sodden skirt slapping against her legs, as far as she could tell the only living thing stupid enough to be out in this.

The lantern beside the tavern’s door was dark. She pushed against the panel, holding her breath, wondering if she was locked out. The door resisted her, then swung open with a shattering creak. She shied back, then slipped inside. Coperic stepped from the taproom, a lamp in one hand, a sword in the other. She saw the lamp quiver infinitesimally though his face kept its sour scowl. “You took your good time getting back, girl.”

“I went to the Temple.”

“I see.” He, glanced past her at the door. “Bring company?”

“Don’t think so. I tried not to.”

“Wait here.” He handed her the lamp as he went past her, then vanished through the door. The warmth of the flame was welcome. She stood dripping in the foyer, suddenly very tired, her whole body aching, her head throbbing. She can’t be back, something must have happened, she’d be here if she was back, the Sleykynin spotted me, they must have caught her, they must have caught her…

Coperic came back in, wiping rain from his face. “You’re clean. No one sniffing along your trail.” He took the lamp from her. “You’re soaked, go on up and get out of those clothes. I’ll be up in a minute to hear what happened.”

“The meie…”

“Not here,” he hissed. He caught her by the shoulder and pushed her toward the taproom. “Scoot, girl.”

He knocked on her door a few moments later. Dinafar let him in and went to sit on the bed, wrapping her shivering body in the cleanest of the quilts. “What…”

“Patience, girl.” He poured a cup of hot cha and brought it to her-and she saw him like the Intii’s mother fussing over a favorite grandchild, something she’d never experienced herself, only observed. Feeling odd, she took the cup and sipped at the hot liquid, trying to discipline her impatience.

He pulled the chair around and at watching her, his forearms crossed over the back. “Early this morning some boys saw the meie taken to the Plaz by two Sleykynin.”

She dropped the cup, spilling cha over her legs. “What are…?”

He interrupted her. “Be quiet. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do but wait. And get the news back to the Biserica for her so her death won’t be useless.”

Dinafar pressed her hands over her mouth.

Coperic rubbed at his eyes, then smiled wearily. “I don’t think we should count her dead yet, child. The little meie might just surprise them and bring herself out of the trap.”

Dinafar pulled her hands down and began rubbing absently at the cha-damp quilt, rubbing and rubbing, remembering the other times, remembering the meie saying she was taught to use her wits to make up for her smallness. She lifted her head and smiled. “You’re right.” Feeling around in the folds of the quilt she found the cup and held it out. “I’m warmer than I was but some more cha would feel good.”

He filled the cup and returned to his chair. “Now, my girl, tell my why you spent so much time at the Temple.”

“A Sleykyn started to follow me…”

A bell rang, interrupting her. Coperic was up and out of the room before she could ask what was happening. The quilt still around her, she padded out of the room and stood at the head of the stairs listening to voices, muffled and unrecognizable, drifting up from below.

The Child: 12

A big woman with arms like trees came storming up to the men; she slapped at the crossbow, knocking it to the ground. Discharged by the shock, the quarrel went skittering into the brush. Ignoring the growls around her, she waddled over to Serroi and stood examining her, hands on her broad hips, elbows defiantly out. The five men shuffled about, silent and glowering, then turned and went back to the tents.

The morning light was cruel to the big old woman, lighting up every pock and blemish with pitiless clarity. Her face was webbed with thousands of small wrinkles. Deeper wrinkles rayed out from big dark eyes, made larger and darker by uneven lines of kohl painted around them. Two loose folds of skin hung from the edges of her narrow, hooked nose, around her generous mouth, meeting in a roll of fat hanging loose under her chin. Her hair was thick and yellow-white, twisted into braids disappearing under a head cloth pinned tight to her head by a loop of coins. Long clanking earrings dangled from the elongated lobes, all that was visible of her ears, earrings of elaborately filigreed silver set with polished lumps of opal. Heavy silver rings, none too clean, sank into the solid flesh of her fingers. Around each thick wrist clanked half a dozen bangles with more coins wired to them. Coins hung around her massive neck, several chains of them, tilting out over her bosom, shifting noisily with each breath.

Shrewd eyes-shifting between brown and green in the morning light-moved from Serroi to the jamat, back to Serroi. Beaming up at the girl, those luminous eyes twinkling, her face open and welcoming, the woman said, “Mek-yi, meto.”

Much of Serroi’s apprehension melted under the impact of the old woman’s friendliness, though she held back a little, not quite trusting what she saw, wondering why the woman would be so different from the man in her reaction to Serroi’s arrival; her experience with the Noris had burned her too deeply.