Jo Clayton: Moongather

When she bent to pick up her bow, her head swam and dark blotches danced before her tearing eyes. Sinking down on her heels, knees shaking, head throbbing from fatigue and the fumes of the wine, she clutched at the rail to steady herself until the dizziness receded. She could hear the voices of fishers as they gathered on the bank but she paid them little attention while she clipped the bow to its strap and shifted it around until the stave lay diagonally across her back. The heels of her hands pressed against tired eyes, she knelt a moment longer, gathering the remnants of her ebbing strength, then shoved herself to her feet and dropped overside into the mud.

A growing number of fishers moved about on the patchy grass at the top of the bank, waiting for her, exchanging muttered comments, scowling at her, not looking particularly grateful for the help she’d given them. They were a surly lot toward outsiders, these inbred villagers. She smoothed her hair down and started up the incline, frowning as her feet slipped on the gelatinous mud that coated her soles and caked in a thick lump under her instep. When she reached firmer ground, she scrubbed her boots vigorously across a patch of wiry grass, inspected the soles, knelt and used a handful of the grass to rub the rest of the mud away, ignoring the men who were waiting for her until she was satisfied that her boots were as clean as she could make them. She wiped her hands on another bit of grass, then rose to her feet to confront the man standing a step ahead of the others.

The Intii-the fisher headman. That much she could read from the pattern of scars running across his forehead, thanks to her Biserica training. The Valley scholars had gathered fragmentary reports about the fishers and woven them into a sketchy picture of their lifeways, enough to give Serroi some confidence in her ability to deal with them in spite of their reluctance to accept outside contact. Obviously not going to speak first, he waited for her to explain herself, growing impatient as she scanned his face without saying the words he was silently demanding. He was a lanky long man, grey-streaked brown hair and beard twisted in elaborate plaits, thin lips pressed into near invisibility, eyebrows like hedges drawn down over hooded hazel eyes. Behind the hair his weathered face was a mask carved from nut-brown cantha wood, unreadable except for a general aura of shrewdness and strength.

She straightened her shoulders, fixed her eyes on his, said firmly, “As meie of the Biserica, under Compact I ask a night’s shelter and help on my way. What is expended will be repaid without the need to ask.”

His eyes traveled over her plain leather tunic, knee-length divided skirt, her battered dirty high boots, the weaponbelt slung around her hips, widened a little as he noted the absence of a sword. “Meien travel two by two,” he said finally, the fisher lilt twisting the words until she had a hard time understanding him. He looked past her at the boat; from the set of his face she thought he recognized it, something he confirmed when he spoke again. “Ferenlang’s boat, how come it here without him?”

“The boat was borrowed.”

“Borrowed, woman?”

“Meie, Intii,” she snapped, suddenly furious at his stubborn resistance. Fingers trembling from fatigue and anger, she jerked the thongs loose on her money sack, pulled out a handful of coins and threw them at his feet. “Pay for the usage of the boat and for the fisher who returns it. Forget the rest, I’ll sleep under the trees where the dark lives that prowl the night show more courtesy than men.”

The Intii contemplated the coins scattered in a ragged line in front of his toes, then fixed his eyes on her face, not about to be hurried into decision either by anger or insult. He rubbed a bony thumb along his lower lip, looked from the tip of her unstrung bow thrusting up past her shoulder to the boat, from the boat to the rocky knob where the Shaman and Warleader had fallen victim to her marksmanship. The silence lengthened, broken by the sounds of shuffling feet and more muttered comment from the men gathered behind the Intii. “A meie without a sword?” he said finally, another quibble, though this time his voice was more thoughtful than accusing.

Serroi swallowed a sigh; the prospect of hot food and a bath was the only thing keeping her from carrying out her threat and leaving the man to his tortuous reasonings. “You will have noted my size.” She spoke with exaggerated patience, knowing this could annoy him, unable to swallow her resentment at the way she was being catechized. The way she was dressed, the skill with which she handled the bow, what the hell else could she be but a meie? “I haven’t the reach for effective swordplay though I’m trained in sword use; must I prove this on one of you?”

To her surprise, the Intii’s thin mouth curved in a tight smile. “If you’re half as quick with sword as you be sharp with bow, I think I’d lose the man, meie.” He wheeled and with a few brisk words ordered the shifting crowd to disperse and take care of work left unfinished at the onset of the raid. He stood silent beside Serroi until the last straggler had passed through the gate, then he chuckled and relaxed, a different man away from his followers. “You’re a stingy fighter, little meie; two arrows and raid’s a rout.” He glanced over his shoulder at the line of boats, shook his head, tongue-clicks underlining his disgust. “Fishers and we never thought of using boats. Next raid, we clean their guts; those bows of theirs, they got no range.”

Serroi frowned. “This is the Moongather year and only one more week before the Gather’s complete. I’ve never heard of Kapperim raiding this close to the Gather-or this far north with winter on the way.” Wearily she moved her shoulders, rubbed at the back of her neck. “Any idea why they’re breaking custom?”

“The stink in Sankoy. Worse’n fish a week out of water. We don’t fish south any more. What I hear, Kapperim’re part of the stink.” He smoothed the toe of one sandal across the gritty earth, his face thoughtful. “Could be they’re opening a way for the Sankoy stink to spread.” Pulling the mantle of the Intii back around his shoulders, speaking with grave formality, he said, “What do you require, meie of the Biserica?”

Once again Serroi straightened her back, squared her shoulders, answering with equal formality, “This I require, Intii of the fishers. A macai from among the abandoned.” She nodded at the dark blotches wandering about the rolling meadow, their shapes lost to the descending night. “A hot meal, a bath, a bed and in the morning supplies for my journey.”

The Child: 2

Letting her short legs swing, Serroi watched the hairy haunches of the vinat ripple as the beast pulled them steadily over the pathless tundra. They were traveling west, cutting across the migration route of the vinat herds and the wind-runner clans that followed them. Narrowing her eyes, she sneaked a glance at the tall silent figure sitting beside her, the reins resting loose in lax fingers. He’d been kind enough, but after her first glow faded, she was afraid to trust that kindness without trying it some more. Her five years had been enough to teach her how little she could depend on outside herself. Though she was beginning to understand that the world had patterns she could learn if she watched them long enough, each spring was still a revelation to her; she wasn’t sure, even now, that the sun would keep coming back, but could remember enough times when it had to be reasonably certain spring would come again. In the same way, she’d come to expect pain and spite from humankind and see momentary kindness as a trap for her stumbling feet.

Still, she had fallen into hope, seduced by the beauty of the man and the music of his voice. It seemed to her as she continued to sneak looks at him that no one so beautiful could be cruel or indifferent, that the man’s outward appearance must reflect his inner nature. She smoothed her hands over the supple leather of the cushions. Smiling timidly, she asked, “How may I call you?”