by Jane Yolen
THE HISTORY:
The women of the mountain warrior clans did not take fostering lightly. Once a child was chosen by her foster mother, the woman had full charge of the child’s care. A kitchener’s child grew up amongst the great pots; took her first steps on the tiled kitchen floor; ate, napped, and slept out her childhood sicknesses in a special children’s nook in the kitchen.
So, too, a child chosen for rearing by one of the warrior/huntresses was carried about in a special pack wherever her foster mother went. Lowentrout finds evidence of this in the famous Baryard Tapestries (his essay “Pack-Children of the Western Holds,” Nature and History, Vol. 39, is especially interesting). There is a leathern pack unearthed from the famous gravemound at Arrundale, and preliminary examination leads to speculation that it may be one of the Amazonian child-carriers. (For more about this dig, see Sigel and Salmon’s video “Graverobbing Among the Dales.”) Such burdens did not hamper the women warriors either in battle or on the hunt, according to Lowentrout, and textual evidence supports his claim. The three scrolls ascribed to the Great Archive of G’run Far Shooter graphically depict the battles in which the mountain clans took part. One in particular speaks of “the double heads of the Amazons” and, in another place, “the precious burden carried by (them).” And most striking, “She fought, all the ways her breast to the foe for as not to expose the one at her back.” Vargo argues that the word “at” simply refers to another fighter, since fighting back-to-back was a familiar style in sword-battle. She further states that if a pack-child had been meant, the word “on” rather than “at” would have been used. However, Doyle, whose seminal work on Alta-linguistics has just been published, points out that in the old tongue on/at/upon and by were used interchangeably.
THE STORY:
“You will have to name her, you know,” Marjo said that night, lying on the far side of the bed. The lantern hanging above them cast shadows on the wall and floor.
Selna looked at the child sleeping between them. She touched the soft cheek with a tentative finger. “If I name her, she really is mine forever.”
“Forever is longer than either one of us shall last,” said Marjo, her finger stroking the child’s other cheek.
“A child is a kind of immortality,” Selna murmured. “A link forged. A bond. Even if she is not of my blood.”
“She will be,” Marjo said. “If you claim her.”
“How can I not—now?” Selna sat up and Marjo followed suit. “She looks to me first, whoever holds her. She trusts me. When I brought her into the kitchen at dinner and everyone wanted to touch her, all the while her tiny head swiveled around to see me.”
“You are being sentimental,” said Marjo with a laugh. “Newborns cannot swivel their heads. They cannot even see.”
“She can. Jenna can.”
“So—you have already named her,” Marjo said. “And without waiting for my approval.”
“You are my sister, not my keeper,” Selna answered testily. At the sharpness in her voice, the child stirred between them. Selna smiled a lopsided apology. “Besides,” she said, “Jenna is just her baby name. I want to name her Jo-an-enna in full.”
“Jo for lover, an for white, enna for tree. That makes sense, for she was found in a tree and her hair—what there is of it—is white. I presume that Jo is because you love her, though I wonder at how quickly such a thing came about. You usually do not love so quickly. It is usually your hatred that is quickly aroused.”
“Do not be an idiot. Jo is for you, Marjo,” Selna said, “and well you know it.” She reached out to touch her companion across the child.
Marjo’s hand met hers halfway and they both smiled.
The child between them cooed.
In the morning Selna took Jenna to the infirmarer, Kadreen, who checked the babe from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet.
“A strong one,” said Kadreen. She did not smile, but then she rarely did. It was said she had stitched too many wounds and set too many bones to find life amusing enough for a smile. But Selna knew that even as a young woman, before she was long in her calling, Kadreen had not found much to smile at. Perhaps, Selna thought, the calling had found her because of that.
“Her fingers grip surprisingly well for a newborn. And she can follow the movement of my hand. That is rare. I clapped my hands to test her hearing and she startled at once. She will be a good companion for you in the woods.”
Selna nodded.
“Make sure you feed her at the same time and she will sleep through the night within the first moon’s change.”
“She slept through the night last night,” Selna said.
“She will not again.”
But despite the infirmarer’s warning, Jenna did sleep soundly through that night and the next. And though Selna tried to feed her on the schedule dictated by Kadreen’s long experience with infants, she was always too busy to do so. Yet the babe seemed to thrive on the erratic meals and, in the woods, strapped to Selna’s breast or back, she was as quiet as any seasoned hunter.
Selna boasted of her fosterling at every opportunity until everyone but Marjo grew weary of it.
“You are in danger of becoming a bore,” said Donya, the head kitchener, when Selna dropped off a fine roebuck and seven rabbits after a two-day hunt. “She is a fine babe, no doubt. Strong and quite pleasant to look upon. But she is not Great Alta. She does not walk across the Lake of Sighs or ride the summer rainbow or leap between the drops of falling rain.”
“I did not say she was the Goddess,” mumbled Selna. The child at her breast laughed delightedly as she tickled it under the chin with one of the rabbit’s feet. Then she looked at the kitchener squarely and roared. “And I am not a bore.”
“I did not say you were. I said you were in danger of becoming one,” said Donya calmly. “Ask anyone.”
Selna glared around the kitchen, but the girls all dropped their eyes and suddenly the room was quiet of voices. All that could be heard was the snick-snack of kitchen knives at work. Donya’s young ones knew better than to tangle with one of the warriors. Selna, especially, was known for her hot temper, though she, unlike some of them, seldom bore a lasting grudge. Still, not a one of them envied her fosterling that temper when it roared.
Selna shook her head, still angry, and turned back to Donya. “I shall want the rabbit skins,” she said. “They will make a soft lining for the pack. Jenna has fine skin.”
“Jenna has a baby’s skin,” said Donya evenly, ignoring Selna’s scowl. “And of course you shall have the fur. I will also save you the deerskin. It should make a fine pair of leggings and many mocs.”
Selna smiled suddenly. “She will need many mocs.”
“But not right away,” Donya said, with a laugh.
There was a titter around the room as her own fosterlings enjoyed the joke.
“What do you mean?” The anger was back in Selna’s voice.
Donya set down the heavy crockery bowl and wooden spoon, wiped her hands on her apron, and held out her arms. Reluctantly Selna recognized the signal and unstrapped the babe, handing her over to Donya.
Donya smiled and rocked the babe in her arms. “This is an infant, Selna. A babe. Look around at my own maids. Seven of them. And once they were each this size. They walked at a year, only one sooner. Do not expect too much from your child and she will grow in your love. When her moon time comes, she will not turn from you. When she reads from the Book of Light and calls her own sister into this world, she will not forsake you. But if you push her too much, you will push her away. A child is not yours to own but yours to raise. She may not be what you will have her be, but she will be what she has to be. Remember what they say, that Wood may remain twenty years in the water, but it is still not a fish.”
“Who is becoming the bore now?” asked Selna in a weary voice. She took Jenna, who was still smiling, back from the kitchener and went from the room.
That night there was a full moon and all the dark sisters
were called forth. In the great open amphitheater the circle of women and their children was complete.
Selna stood in the circle’s center below the altar, which was flanked by three rowan trees. Marjo was by her side. For the first time in almost a year there was a new fosterling to celebrate, though two of the gardeners and one warrior had each borne a babe. But those infants had already had their consecration to the Goddess. It was Jenna’s turn now.
The priestess sat silently on the backless throne atop the rock altar, her own dark sister throned beside her. Black hair braided with tiny white flowers, lips stained red with the juice of berries, they waited until the crowd of worshippers quieted. Then they leaned forward, hands on knees, and stared down at Selna and Marjo, but only the priestess herself spoke.
“Who bears the child?”
“Mother, I do,” said Selna, raising Jenna to eye level. For her the word “mother” had a double meaning, for the priestess had been her own foster mother, who had grieved sorely when Selna had chosen to follow the warrior way.
“And I,” said Marjo.
They stepped together up onto the first altar rise.
“And who bore the child?” the priestess asked.
“Mother, a woman of the town,” said Selna.
“She died in the woods,” Marjo added.
They mounted the second step.
“And who now bleeds for the child?” the priestess asked.
“She shall have my blood,” said Selna.
“And mine.” Marjo’s voice was a quiet echo.
They reached the third step and the priestess and her dark sister rose. The priestess took the silent babe from Selna’s hands, turned, and placed the child upon the throne. Marjo and Selna were beside her in one fluid movement.
Then the priestess dropped to her knees before the child. She took her long black braid, and wound it about the child’s waist. Her sister, on the other side of the throne, did the same. As soon as they were done, Selna and Marjo knelt and offered their hands, wrists up.
Taking a silver pin from a box mounted in the arm of the throne, the priestess pierced Selna’s wrist where the blue vein branched. At the same time, her sister with an identical pin did the same for Marjo. They held the warriors’ wrists together so that the blood flowed each to each.
Next the priestess turned and pricked Jenna lightly, above the navel, signaling to Selna and Marjo silently with her free hand. They bent over and placed their wrists side by side on the baby’s belly so that their blood mingled.
Then the priestess and her sister drew their twined braids over the steady hands.
“Blood to blood,” the priestess intoned. “Life to life.”
The entire congregation of Alta’s-hame repeated the words, a rolling echo in the clearing.
“What is the child’s name?”
Selna could not keep from smiling. “Jo-an-enna,” she said.
The priestess spelled out the name and then, in the old tongue, gave the child her secret name that only the four of them—and Jenna in her time—would know. “Annuanna,” she said. “The white birch, the goddess tree, the tree of everlasting light.”
“Annuanna,” they whispered to one another and the child.
Then the priestess and her sister unwrapped their hair and stood. Holding their hands over the two kneelers and the babe, both priestess and sister spoke the final prayer.
She who holds us
in her hand,
She who molds us
in this land,
She who drives
away the night,
She who wrote
the Book of Light,
In her name,
Blessed be.
The assembled women came in perfectly on the responses.
When they were done, Selna and Marjo stood together, Selna holding out the infant so that all could see. At the great cheer that arose below them, Jenna woke up, startled, and began to cry. Selna did not comfort her, though the priestess looked sharply at her. A warrior had to learn young that crying brought no comfort.
Back inside, after the magnificent feast that followed, the baby was handed around the table for all to see. She began in the priestess’ arms and was handed over to the plump arms of Donya, who dandled her expertly but “as routinely as a bit of mutton just off the spit,” Selna commented testily to Marjo. Donya handed the child to the leaner arms of the warriors. They chucked and clucked at Jenna’s chin, and one dark sister threw her up into the air. She screamed with delight, but Selna pushed aside the circle of companions angrily to catch the child on her downward flight.
“What kind of a misbegotten son-of-a-son are you?” she cried out. “What if the light had failed? Whose arms would have caught her then?”
The dark sister Sammor shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “This late mothering has made mush of your brains, Selna. We are inside. There are no clouds to hide the moon. The lights of Alta’s-hame never fail.”
Selna tucked Jenna under one arm and raised the other to strike Sammor, but her hand was caught from behind.
“Selna, she is right and you are wrong in this. The babe is safe,” Marjo said. “Come. Drink a toast with us all to forget and forgive, and then we will play at the Wands.” They brought their arms down together.
But Selna’s anger did not abate, which was unusual, and she sat outside the circle of sisters when they threw the wands around the ring in the complicated patterns that trained them for sword-handling.
With Selna out, Marjo could not play either, and she sat across from her sister and sulked as the game went on. It became more and more complex as a second, then a third, and finally a fourth set of wands was introduced into the circle. The flexible willows flipped end over end in the air, passing from woman to woman, from hand to hand, and soon the dining hall was quiet except for the slip-slap of the wands as they hit palm after palm after palm.
“The lights!” someone shouted, and a cheer went up from the watchers around the ring. Sammor’s sister Amalda nodded and two of the kitcheners, new enough to the sisterhood that they stuck together as close as shadows, rose to stand by the torches that illuminated the circle.
The game went on without stopping, the wands slipping even more quickly through the air. Not a hand had missed since the throws began. The whizzing of the wands as they passed one another was punctuated by the slapping of palms.
Then without warning both torches were doused in the water buckets and the dark sisters in the circle disappeared. The circle was halved and there was a clatter of wands hitting the floor. Only Marjo, who sat beyond the range of the two doused torches, and the dark sisters of the watchers, who stood far from the game, remained, for the lights from the kitchen shone upon them.
Amalda’s voice counted out those who had lost their wands. “Domina, Catrona, Marna.” Then she turned and nodded for two new torches to be brought.
The relighted circle arranged itself as dark sisters appeared again. The losers—Domina, Catrona, and Marna and their dark halves—went into the kitchen for something to drink. Playing at the wands was thirsty work. But Selna stood, the child at her breast, and spoke so loudly no one could miss it.
“It has been a tiring day, sweet Jenna, and time we were both in bed. I will put out the light tonight.”
There was a gasp heard around the circle. To put out the light was to send your sister back into the darkness. To announce it so was an affront.
Marjo’s mouth grew tighter, but she said nothing as she stood with Selna and followed her out of the room. But Sammor spoke to their departing backs.
“Remember, Selna, that it is said, If your mouth turns into a knife, it will cut off your lips.” She did not expect an answer and, indeed, got none.
“You shamed me,” Marjo said softly when they reached their room. “You have never done such a thing before. Selna, what is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Selna answered, arranging the baby in her cot, smoothing the blanket and touching the ch
ild’s white hair with a finger. She began to hum an old cradle song. “Look! She is already asleep.”
“I mean, what is wrong between us?” Marjo bent over the cot and stared at the sleeping child. “She is a sweetling.”
“There, you see? Nothing is wrong between us. We both love her.”
“How can you love her after so short a time? She is nothing but a bit of flesh and coos. Later she shall be someone to love—strong or weak, bright-eyed or sad, handy with her hands or her mouth. But now she is only—” Marjo’s voice stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, for Selna had blown out the large candle over the bed.
“There is nothing wrong between us now, sister,” Selna whispered into the black room.
She lay down on the bed, conscious of Marjo’s empty half, for her sister could always be counted on to talk and laugh and come up with a quick answer before they slept. Then she turned over and, holding her breath, listened a moment for the baby’s breathing. When she was sure the child was safe, she let out the air with a loud percussive sigh and fell asleep.
THE HISTORY:
The “game of wands” has come down to us in a highly suspect form. It is played today only by girl children in the Upper Dales, where the chorus, sung in modal tuning by watchers (usually boys) standing outside the circle, goes:
Round and round and round the ring
The willow sword we now do fling.
The concentric circles of players sit on the ground facing one another, wands in hand. Once made of willow (which no longer grows in the Upper Dales, though evidence of a different flora-culture proves willows may have been plentiful a thousand years ago), the wands today are manufactured of a plastine that is both flexible and strong. At a drum signal, the wands are passed from hand to hand in a clockwise manner for seven beats, then returned for seven beats. Next the wands are flipped between the circles in preset partnerships for seven more beats. Finally, to the accompaniment of the choral singing of the watchers, and an ever-rapidly increasing pattern beat out on the drum, the wands are flipped across the circle, first to the partner and back, then to the person directly to the partner’s right. The wands must be caught in the sword hand, which gives left-handed players a decided disadvantage in the game. As soon as a player drops a wand, she is “out.”