Jo Clayton - Moongather

“Tarim’sk ashag, meto.” Grunting with the effort, the old woman bent and waved her hand at the ground, then straightened, her face red. She took a long step closer and reached up to Serroi.

When their fingers touched, force jolted between them, knocking the old woman back, sizzling up Serroi’s arm, almost shocking her off the jamat. She tottered, grabbed a handful of the fleece on the jamat’s shoulders. Shuddering, she stared at the woman. “What happened? What was that?” She hugged her arms tight across her narrow chest, feeling the bones hard under her skin. I don’t know what to do, she thought, I want to trust her, but… She looked past the woman at the people moving about the camp, stopping to watch her. Nothing welcoming about them.

The old woman was frowning. “Damkil sta?”

“I don’t know Pehiirit,” Serroi said slowly, clearly. She frowned and searched her memory for the other languages she’d studied, though reading them and speaking them were two different things. “Gavarut vist-blec?” she asked, her tongue stumbling over the syllables. The old woman shook her head. Serroi licked her lips. “Um… mosmusweiwend?”

“N’alalam iy.” Again the shake of the head, the dull jangle of the earrings, the soft flop of the braids.

“Mmm. Spaeken mijloc?”

“Ah. Mijloc.” The old woman nodded vigorously, her earrings bouncing wildly.

That’s a help, Ser roi thought. She wriggled around and slid off the jamat, then patted the big animal and pointed to the desert. “I did not steal him,” she said very slowly, again struggling for words. “I found him out there.” Words began coming more smoothly as she spoke. Relaxing a little, she grabbed at and caught the frayed chin rope. “See?” She nodded as the old woman took the rope end from her and rubbed her broad thumb across the frays.

The old woman dropped the rope with a casual shrug. She obviously wasn’t much interested in the jamat, only in Serroi. “Desert. You?” Her accent was thick and Serroi had to puzzle a moment over the words, then she nodded, smiling. The woman smiled back. “Testing?”

“Testing?” Serroi blinked at her, not understanding what she meant, then she thought of the Noris and shivered. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you mean by testing.” She moved restlessly, eyes scanning the tents and the unfriendly people moving about them. “What do I do?”

The old woman dropped a broad strong hand on her shoulder; the force leaped between them again, but she hung on until only a rather pleasant tingle was left. “You have pass the dark gate and come back. You not know this?”

“There was a dream.” She shook her head. “It was only a dream.”

“You say it to me soon. Your people, they tell you nothing of the dreamtest? Pay me no mind, meto.” She laughed; the chains danced again and those earrings swung some more. She began coughing, beat on her chest, laughed some more. “I forget courtesy when I want to know things. Come. Hungry, little one?” She led Serroi to a tent set off to one tide. Behind it, a girl crouched beside a black pot, stirring petulantly at the contents. Hate flared in her black eyes when she saw Serroi following the old woman. “T’mek!” she hissed.

‘The old woman strode over to her and jerked her to her feet, shook her, snapped, “Davan, fena’kh!” She shoved her back down, pointed at the pot then at a pile of metal bowls sitting by the fire. “Kulek chak m’lao.” She looked over her shoulder at Serroi. “Sit, please, little one. Food soon, when this young viper remember how to act.”

The girl glared at Serroi then shook the tangle of hair out of her face. “Siy!” she spat. “Gidahi hich yilan-sa!”

The woman’s big hand swung in a blow that sent the girl sprawling. Ignoring her wailing, the woman picked up a battered bowl and ladled some of the boiled meat and wild grain into it. She stooped and picked up two flat grayish objects from a low square table beside the fire. With a last glare at the cowering girl, she swept over to Serroi and thrust the food at her. “Eat, meto. Apologies for the bira there. She say she die before she feed you.” The old woman shrugged and walked away.

Serroi held the stew bowl in one hand and the two leathery loaves of bread in the other. She stared down at the warm flat loaves. Hungry as she was, she felt a bit dubious about them, then remembered the raw lizards she’d eaten in the desert and chuckled at herself. She set the loaves down and rested the bowl on her knees, looking about for something to eat with. The big woman came back from the fire, smiled at her, then settled herself comfortably, tore off a piece of the bread and used it to shovel some of the thick stew into her mouth. Serroi sniffed at the meat, smiled with pleasure, then imitated her hostess. In spite of her hunger and her delight in the warmth and taste of the stew, she soon could eat no more. She set the bowl on the ground by her knee and watched the girl as she waited for the woman to finish her meal.

On the far side of the fire, the girl crawled back to the pot. Her hand on the spoon, sullenly she looked out of the corners of her eyes at the old woman. “Cayalts, Janja?” Her face was still ugly with resentment and jealousy.

“Caiz.” The woman watched the girl ladle stew for herself, a complex of emotions playing over her broad face as she chewed slowly at the bread. After a few moments she snorted with disgust and turned to Serroi. “Idiot bira.” She narrowed her eyes at the food remaining in Serroi’s bowl. “Is enough?’

“Is more than enough.” Serroi patted her stomach. “No room.”

The woman grinned at her then slapped a hand on her wide bosom, making the money chains jingle and all her bangles clank fearsomely. “I nomen Raiki-janja.”

“I nomen Serroi.”

“Ah, Maiden bless.” Raiki tucked in a breath, tapped a broad forefinger against the side of her head. “Hunt for words make my head hurt. You learn Pehiirit?”

Serroi hesitated, uncertain whether she wanted to stay with these people long enough to justify the effort. She felt adrift, no direction left for her now that she was out of the desert. Her eyes moved slowly around the encampment, watching the men sitting by their fire, talking, spitting, sipping at small glasses of cha, at the women working over cook fires or spinning jamat fleece into yarn, at the berbec herd moving slowly off to the grazing grounds under the guidance of the mouscar’s boys. She sighed. “Janja, I bring trouble.” She nodded at the scowling girl crouched over her bowl. “And not just with that one.”

“I am Janja.” The heavy head came up proudly and the old chatoyant eyes looked about, fierce as a predator’s viewing a herd of prey animals. “What I want, I do. You janja too.”

“Me?” Serroi stared, then shook her head. “No.”

Raiki nodded. “You feel the power. You and me, we sisters. You do me joy if you stay, janja-meto.”

Once again Serroi hesitated; she looked into the old woman’s smiling face, felt again-almost like a fire bathing her-the warmth radiating out from the janja, caressing Serroi, welcoming her. She trembled, tried to smile, nodded. “I stay. Awhile.”

“Ah. Maiden bless.” Raiki pointed at the fire. “Atsh. Fire.” She uncrossed her legs and pointed at her high-arched battered bare feet. “Ayk. Foot.” She slapped a hand against the ground, scraped up and let fall a pinch of dry soil. “Lek’t.”

The lessons continued as Serroi trailed Raiki about the camp, watching with curiosity as she tranced then healed an ailing baby, worked an amulet for a woman whose last child had been born dead, went out into the desert and collected herbs and several kinds of beetles. After mid-meal the rounds began again, and the pehiirit words kept coming until Serroi was dizzy with weariness.