The Great Alta Saga Omnibus

by Jane Yolen

  Magon, of course, in his typical inane leaps, tries to prove that many of the later kings (especially Oran, father of Langbrow, and Langbrow himself) actually bedded their Dale wives, producing offspring. He cites as evidence a few old and rather coarse rhymes, including the infamous

  When Langbrow put his awl in

  To carve a wooden babe

  That of a larch and of an oak

  Was so securely made …

  as well as the tender dedicatory note writ in hand (and by whose hand we do not know) on the one extant copy we have of Langbrow’s Book of Battles: This littl booke is for thee Annuanna, my luv, my lighte. Leaving aside the fact that Langbrow’s Garunian wife was named Jo-el-ean (the infamous Jo-el-ean who refused to sit by her husband’s side and thus brought down his reign in ruin and infamy) the name Annuanna, despite its feminine ending has long been considered a man’s name, being the shortened form of Annuannatan. If in fact the dedication is in Langbrow’s hand, it makes more sense that he would sign the Book of Battles to a male friend; Annuannatan can only be his homosexual lover, his blanket companion from the army. If Dr. Magon had done this kind of root work, he would not now be making a fool of himself in scholarly circles.

  THE STORY:

  It was two days before they left New Steading, for it took that long to round up and equip two hundred young men. In fact, there were two hundred and thirty-seven by actual count, including the mayor’s oldest son. And there was new clothing for the men already following the king, as well as dozens of pikes and swords loaned by the town fathers. Carum looked splendid in a wine-colored jerkin and trews and a showy white shirt pipped with gold. The king was all in gold weave. Even Piet looked resplendent, though he had chosen green and brown “to blend in with the woods,” he had muttered, adding, “Gold is fine for ceremony, my lord, but war is another matter altogether.”

  Gorum had laughed at that. “Wherever a king is, there is ceremony.”

  “Wherever a king is, there is war,” Carum had put in, but they ignored him.

  Jenna had refused her new clothes since all they offered her were women’s skirts and bodices dressed with fancy beading. She knew the skirts would make riding difficult, guessed the beads would catch in any brush and leave an easy trail to follow. Instead she brushed out her old skins, borrowing a needle and thread to mend the few tears. She did not need to be fancy. In war one needed the proper equipment. And as Catrona had reminded her in training: In a fight anything is a sword.

  She did accept their offer of a bath, however, and spent over an hour soaking. Her only regret, as she sank into the warm water, was that the smell of Carum’s flesh on hers disappeared in the first soaping, though when she closed her eyes, she could recall its deep, tangy odor. She thought she would know him anywhere, just from that smell. Still, as the water enveloped her, she gave herself over to its ministry. Such long ridings offered only cold country streams and though she was used to the chilly lavings, having had long practice out in the woods, and washed herself dutifully every day they found so much as a catchpool, she had, after all, been brought up in a Hame with a famous deep-heated bath. It was the only bit of civilization she really missed.

  When had she taken her last hot bath? It felt like forever since she and Petra had soaked in the Hame together. But in the Dales they said: Forever is no distance at all.

  Jenna knew that the distance was there. Something had certainly changed Petra—or changed Jenna. She and Carum had emerged from the council room holding hands but once they had found the main door, had moved apart swiftly, walking down into the town square so removed from one another, they could not have touched even by stretching.

  They had found Petra leaning against a wall, nibbling on a piece of chicken, eyes closed.

  “Petra!” Jenna whispered.

  Petra’s eyes opened slowly, almost reluctantly.

  “And where did you two get to?”

  Carum turned and left abruptly, without even trying to offer an excuse. Jenna refused to watch him go.

  “I saw you did not eat,” Petra continued, as if Carum had never been there at all, had not been included in her initial accusation. “So I saved a whole napkin full of food for you for later. Such theft does not come easily to me. I am trained to be a Mother Alta. And then you were nowhere to be found.”

  “I was …” Jenna began, then realized that she could say nothing to Petra. Nothing. Petra was still a girl, after all, and Jenna was a girl no longer. Change had happened, slowly, yet suddenly. And Petra had not shared it. Jenna wondered that the change did not show easily—on her cheeks, in her eyes, on her mouth, still soft from all those kisses. Reaching out, she picked off a bit of the chicken in Petra’s hand.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I am starved.”

  “No wonder,” Petra said. “If the gods do not eat of our food, they are bound to get hungry.”

  “Rarely eat,” Jenna corrected her. “He said rarely!”

  Petra handed her the leek bulb, but Jenna shook her head, so Petra chewed it herself.

  “They want me to stay here,” Petra said.

  “Who does?”

  “Everyone. The mayor …” She hesitated.

  “Perhaps you should,” Jenna said slowly, horrified at the thought.

  “They said women should not be at war. That we are not strong as men. The townsfolk said that.”

  “And what about me? What about the Anna?”

  “You are a goddess. That is different.”

  “Alta’s women should be where they will. We are trained to war as well as to peace.”

  “I knew you would say that.” Petra grinned. “And that is what I told them. That and that Alta’s priestess must ride at the Anna’s side. After all, many women have already died that you might ride on and I ride with you.”

  “That is not why they died.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Stick to your rhyme. You are clearer that way.” Jenna bit her lip. How could she have said such a cruel thing?

  But Petra laughed, missing the cruelty entirely, or dismissing it. “You are right, of course. If I am to be your priestess, I had better be very clear—or very obscure. But correct either way!” She gave Jenna a hug.

  “Whew!” Jenna said. “If you insist on eating spring leeks, your breath will be as strong as five men’s even if your arm is not.”

  They both laughed then, friends again, and walked into the town hall.

  The ride out of New Steading toward the east had been accompanied by the cheering of the townsfolk. Jenna kept Duty from prancing, having been instructed by one of the men in how to keep the horse under control. She rode next to Carum, but that was as close as they had gotten since he had walked away from Petra’s questions. After that they had both been too busy, always surrounded by men.

  Over the thudding of the horse’s hooves, the fading shouts behind them, Jenna called, “Do you … still …” She hesitated. How could she scream that word where others might hear it?

  His mouth twisted wryly, the scar under his left eye crinkling up, as if winking wantonly at her. “Of course I still remember, if that is the word you want. I remember every move. Every … thing.” He gave her a big grin. “An oak remembers. And you?”

  She smiled back. “Jo-an-enna means lover of white birches.”

  “What?” The hoofbeats had obscured her answer.

  She repeated it, calling: “If you are a tree, I am a tree.”

  “I am a man,” he said. “Not a tree.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “That I truly know.”

  Then their horses, forced by the ones following, broke into a canter which stopped all talk as they galloped on down the winding road.

  They paused at two smaller towns on the way, adding a dozen men to their force, the king showing off Jenna as if she were some sort of exotic animal imported from the Continent. Carum grumbled about it loudly, but even he had to admit the show seemed to be working.

  Piet was not s
o pleased. “Twelve men when we need twelve hundred,” he said. “When twelve thousand would not be amiss.”

  “Then what about women?” Jenna asked. They were stopped at the next rest, the new boys being well introduced while the horses made quick work of the grass by the roadside. “Surely we are near some Hame.” She paused, adding quietly, “There must be some Hame still unharmed close by. You said ten gone, but there were …” her voice cracked, “seventeen.”

  Piet grunted; what answer he meant to give was unclear. But the king shook his head. “These are not regular army men used to blanket companions. These are boys right off the farms or right out of their fathers’ shops. The girls they know cook and sew. If we are to keep their minds on their new swords …”

  “The women of the Hame know how to wield their swords. And they have a reason to …”

  “There is one Hame nearby,” Carum interrupted suddenly. He reached into his saddlebag and drew out a map. Spreading it across his horse’s flank, he ran a finger along a wavering black line. “We are somewhere here …”

  “Here!” Piet said, jabbing at the map with his forefinger.

  Carum nodded. “And there—” His finger pointed to a strange hatching of marks. “That is M’dorah Hame.”

  “M’dorah?” Jenna thought back to the list that Catrona had reeled off when their fateful journey had started. Selden, Calla’s Ford, Wilma’s Crossing, Josstown, Calamarie, Carpenter’s, Krisston, West Dale, Annsville, Crimerci, Lara’s Well, Sammiton, East James, John-o-the-Mill’s, Carter’s Tracing, North Brook, Nill’s … remembering Nill’s she set her jaw. But there had been no mention of a M’dorah. Aloud, she said, “I have never heard of it.”

  Looking up, Carum said, almost absently, “It’s an odd place, Jenna. Not exactly a regular Hame, at least that’s what the books say. They broke away from the first Alta and built their Hame atop an inaccessible cliff. The only way up is by rope ladder. They will have nothing to do with men. They have never sent fighters to the army. And they have never sent …”

  “M’dorah,” Petra mused. “They never send missioners out. My Mother Alta always threatened that if we did not behave, she would send us to M’dorah on our mission: High-towered Hame where eagles dare not nest. I thought it but a story.”

  “Perhaps that’s all it is,” Carum said. “But it is supposed to be nearby.”

  “Let us go,” Jenna said suddenly. “If it exists at all, we will bring back many women fighters to swell your ranks. And they will be women who want nothing to do with your men, so the boys will not be troubled by them.”

  The king laughed. “Then you do not understand boys! They can make a woman out of flowers, out of trees, out of dreams. Their bodies smell of springtide all year long.”

  Jenna blushed furiously.

  “There is nothing there. No one,” Piet growled. “It means taking time out for a mere tale.”

  “Perhaps not,” Carum put in. “Stories have to start somewhere.”

  “This one started as a joke after too much wine,” Piet groused. “And too few women.”

  “From the map,” Jenna said, “it looks to be less than a day’s ride from here. And you did say you needed more fighters. And you wanted to buy yourself time. Let me go. I will persuade them.”

  “Persuade eagles!” Piet said.

  “You are too precious to let go.” The king’s face was thoughtful.

  “I will go with her,” Carum said. “We will return.”

  Looking at the map carefully, the king traced the road from the hatched site of M’dorah. Finally he turned to Jenna. “We will camp there for the night,” he said, pointing to the place where the road to M’dorah turned off. “You will have until morning. No sleep, but then as they say on the Continent: Surely a dream is worth a little sleep!” He laughed silently. “Piet will go with you. Carum, you will remain here.”

  He knows, Jenna thought. He knows about Carum and me. The thought embarrassed her, then made her mad, as if Gorum had sullied them by knowing.

  Carum began to protest, but Jenna nodded abruptly, cutting off his argument. “Piet,” she agreed. “And Petra. I will need my priestess with me if I am to convince them to join us.”

  “Piet for protection and the girl for conviction. An unlikely pair.” He smiled.

  “I am my own protection,” Jenna said. “And Piet is for your convictions.”

  Gorum nodded solemnly. He put his hand out. “Your hand on your return.”

  “You have my word on it,” she said. “Besides, you have here those I most care for in the world.” She gestured to Jareth, Marek, Sandor. That her circling hand did not include Carum was proof to herself that she was not being entirely truthful to the king. After all, she had not mentioned Pynt or A-ma or the other women of Selden Hame either. Surely they were the ones she most cared for.

  If the king noticed her omission, he did not mention it, holding his hand steadily toward her. She was forced to take it, feeling again its lack of warmth as palm to palm they made their pledge.

  The road to M’dorah was hardly a road at all, just an overgrown path where the trees suddenly widened. It was Piet who recognized it as a roadway, though when challenged afterward by Marek, he could not explain how he had known.

  The king called a halt and the large company encircled the meadow, setting up camp. Scouts were sent to locate water and to track ahead down the main road. But Piet, Petra, and Jenna turned along the scant path.

  Jenna looked back only once, hoping to see Carum watching. But he was nowhere in sight. She entered the trees thinking about the perfidy of men; how love, like memory, could be false; and conscious of Duty’s broad back beneath her.

  The trees were tall and full, a busy forest of much variety. Jenna identified beech, oak, whitethorn, and larch with ease, but there were many trees she had never seen before, some with spotty barks, some with needle leaves, and some with roots that twisted over and around one another above the earth like a badly plaited braid of hair. Ahead of them bright birds piped warnings from the branches, then flew away in noisy confusion. If there was sign of larger animals, Jenna did not notice for Piet kept up a quick pace, threading them through the trees on the ever-ascending path as if he knew where he was going.

  After a couple of hours, the path suddenly narrowed and they had to dismount, leading the horses for another hundred yards until the path disappeared entirely. They were forced to leave the horses tied loosely, and set off on foot. The way Piet chose wound upward at an even steeper angle, and soon they were all three breathing hard. Jenna felt a small pain under her breastbone but she would not admit it out loud.

  It was clear Piet understood the deep woods. He knew how to check before stepping. But Petra, in the full skirts she had been given by the New Steadingers, was having a great deal of trouble in the pathless ascent. Her clothes caught frequently on the thorny bushes and they lost precious time freeing her. Jenna clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in annoyance, glad that she, at least, had kept her skins for the trip.

  At last the ascending woods thinned out and they could see a clear space ahead. When they reached it, they found themselves at the start of a high, treeless plain. The plain was covered with what seemed to be a forest of gigantic, towering rocks, some slim needle points, others wider sword blades, still others enormous leaning towers of stone, all hundreds of feet high. They had to crane their necks to see to the tops.

  “It is true, then,” Petra said when she had caught her breath.

  “The cliffs at least are true,” Piet said. “As to the Hame …”

  “Look!” Jenna pointed. Atop one of the broadest of the stones, far across the plain toward the north, was some kind of building. As they moved closer, over the rock-strewn plain, they could make it out. It had wooden galleries scaffolded into space and a roof like a series of giant mushrooms. Jenna could see no continuous path cut into the rock’s side. “There must be steps on the other side,” she whispered to herself, but the others
heard.

  “We’ll look,” Piet said.

  It took them another two hours, into the fading light of evening, to circle the stone, but they found nothing.

  “Then how does anyone get up?” Petra asked.

  “Perhaps they fly like eagles,” Piet suggested.

  “Perhaps they burrow like moles,” Jenna added.

  They were still offering suggestions, when not twenty feet from them first a sound and then a cascading of something down the stone face brought them to the spot. It was a hinged ladder of rope and wood.

  “Someone is up there,” Petra said, staring beyond the ladder, her hand shading her eyes.

  “Someone who knows we are down here,” Piet said. He began to draw his sword.

  Jenna put her hand on his arm. “Hold,” she said. “It is a woman. A sister.”

  Piet looked up. Someone was descending the rope ladder. He slipped the sword back in its sheath, but his hand did not stray from the hilt.

  In the swiftly darkening night, it was hard to make out the figure climbing down. The shadow was stocky, heavier on top than on the bottom, somehow badly misshapen. Jenna wondered if only disfigured women—or the deranged—would remove themselves to such a place. Then she remembered Mother Alta of Nill’s Hame: blind, twisted, with six fingers on each hand. She had not needed a sanctuary apart from the others. We women take care of our own, she thought. There is another reason for this forbidding Hame.

  The shadow unwound itself from the ladder and stood before them. It was a woman, of that there was no doubt by the closeweave bodice she wore. But her strange humped back was …

  “A babe!” Petra said.

  At that very moment, the child bound to the woman’s back gave a cry of delight, waving its one free hand.