by Jane Yolen
“And now we bleed for her as well,” Jenna said.
“Don’t do this, mother.” Scillia’s voice was a harsh rasp.
They yanked her onto the third step and Marga leaned forward, holding out a hand.
Scillia was trapped between. Ignoring Marga’s hand, she pulled away from Jenna and Skada. “You could have asked me.”
Marga whispered. “There is no precedent for asking. This is done to a baby. A baby has nothing to say in the ritual. We thought it best therefore …”
“Best for who?”
“For you,” said Jenna.
“For whom!” Skada said at the same time, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“We haven’t done one of these ceremonies in years,” Marga explained.
“Well, don’t start again on my account.”
“I told you it was a bad idea,” Skada said to Jenna.
“You said it was better now than never.”
“I did not.”
“Indeed you did.”
“Jenna, you have ears like the Garunian cat, the one who hears wind passing but knows not the weather.”
Jenna’s voice was nearly breaking. “I just wanted Scillia to understand that we had ties, too, greater than old blood. I wanted her to know she is as much mine as Iluna’s. And more certainly mine than the poor fool who …” Her voice trailed off.
“… who threw me away?”
It was as though they had forgotten Scillia was even with them. Both Jenna and Skada turned, startled by the girl’s remark. But even as they were turning, Scillia pulled loose of them, running down the few steps and past the assembled sisters, going so quickly the tail of her cape fluttered as if there were a strong wind.
“I knew I should never have allowed this,” Marga said. “Jenna, you still have the power to talk me into mischief.”
For once Jenna and Skada were both silent.
Leaning forward, Marga whispered to them. “Things have changed greatly in the years, my dear friends, though we here at Selden have changed least of all. We do not do these old ceremonies anymore for a reason. There are no more girl children for us to take in, and that is a good thing you have done for the Dales, Jenna. You should have trusted in your legacy. Selden is a Hame for old women now, not girls.” She straightened and said in a voice that carried to all: “Let us go back inside. It is too cold to stand about here in the meadow. And the child refuses the rite. We have many chores still, and the infirmarer needs no one sick with a spring chill.” She descended the stairs, followed by the still silent Jenna and Skada.
There were whispers as they walked past the rows, but Skada was wise enough not to comment back until they reached the Hame. Then all she said to Jenna was “I did not!”
It was enough.
Jenna returned no answer, but left the well-lit dining hall at once and went into her bedroom where she guttered the torch against the metal brackets so she might be alone.
Her thoughts were jumbled, water over stone, and though she lay down at last in her bed, she did not fall asleep until dawn.
THE BALLAD:
SONG OF THE THREE MOTHERS
One is the mother who bore me,
In bright red rivers of blood.
Two is the mother who wore me,
Through fire and fever and flood.
Three is the mother who carried me
Year after year after year.
And she is the mother who married me
To my faults and fancies and fear.
One to make me,
Two to take me,
Three to carry me away.
One is the mother who bred me,
A moment of passion and heat.
Two is the mother who fed me
Her blood and milk and meat.
Three is the mother who led me
Through love and pain and war.
She is the mother who’s wed me
To all that is worth living for.
One to make me,
Two to take me,
Three to carry me away.
THE STORY:
“Jenna, wake up! You must get up! She is gone!”
Sunlight puddled on the floor near the window, too far from the bed to wake a really deep sleeper. But Marga’s insistent voice pulled Jenna out of her dreams at once.
“Who is gone?” she asked sleepily.
“Scillia. She did not come to dinner, but then neither did you. But her bed was not slept in which we found when we went to call her for breakfast. We have searched the Hame for her. She is not here.”
Jenna sat up in an instant. “Why did you not call me sooner?”
“We thought she was just hiding. Or sulking. We are not so old that we have forgotten what it is like to be thirteen. And many of the women here were part of the old cullings, adopted into Hames by second mothers. They are not unsympathetic to the child.” Marga handed Jenna her leathers.
“Have you forgotten my own history?” Jenna growled. “I had three mothers, just as Scillia had. But worse, there was the scandal of my last mothers, dark and light, who quarreled over me which led directly to their deaths. Surely you recall it?”
Marga did not answer her question, but said only, “Her horse is gone as well.”
Jenna pulled on trousers and tunic, then bound up her long braid with a thick ribband. She vowed to herself not to say a word more to Marga about the past. Only the present. Finding her boots, she pulled them on with two quick tugs. “Did Scillia take any food as if for a long trip?”
“Not that we could tell.”
“Then she was being stupid. She is not trained for the woods as we were, Pynt.”
“Perhaps,” Marga said slowly. “But perhaps she only means to be gone for a little. To frighten you.”
“She has frightened me,” Jenna said. “And probably frightened herself as well by now. Are there still cats in the woods?” She walked out of the room without waiting for Marga’s answer.
Marga followed quickly behind. “They are mostly gone.” She almost had to run to keep up with Jenna’s long strides. “But it was very cold last night.”
“A little discomfort and a little cold should bring her to her senses,” Jenna said cooly, but the speed of her steps belied the coolness of her voice.
“It never brought you to yours,” Marga replied.
In the kitchen Jenna grabbed up half a loaf of bread and filled a skin with water. “You check the woods close by here,” she said to Marga. “I am going on to the village. She may have slept the night with her brothers.”
“Send us word.”
Jenna was already out the door and heading toward the stable. “I will,” she called back.
Only the final word, will, floated back to Marga. Will. She whispered to herself, “There is already too much will in that family.” Then she abruptly turned to organize a further search for the girl.
Scillia had left directly from the aborted ceremony, wandering about in the dark woods for hours. Only luck kept her from a rough trail that ended up in a cat’s cave. Only luck kept her from a rock slide into an icy stream. She paid little attention to where her feet led her, her anger keeping her warm.
Never, she thought, have I been so humiliated. It wasn’t true, of course. But truth has little to do with anger. She forgot in her anger the time her brother Jem had tugged so hard at her skirt for attention, the bands on the material had split and he’d fallen backwards, the entire skirt bunched in his little hand. She forgot as well the day in her first year of riding, when the horse had thrown her off and she had landed at the feet of her father who’d been boasting of her skill to a visiting delegation of Garunians. She forgot the hundred of other slights and mishaps that befall a growing girl, even a growing girl who is a princess.
But the more she rubbed this particular wound, the sorer it became.
There was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars shown brightly. Luck brought her to the road, luck and those stars hanging comfortably over
head. She knew them all from her lessons: the Huntress, the Great Hound, Alta’s Braid, and the rest. They showed her the road back to the Hame where in the mid of night she quietly saddled her horse and rode him back down into the village.
The hostel’s lanterns were still lit, illuminating the sign. The Hanging Man looked extremely jolly for someone swinging on a gibbet. Scillia shuddered, as much from the gruesome sign as from the cold.
She dismounted and led her horse around back to the inn’s stable, giving the horse over to a sleepy stable boy. Then she went around to the front and entered the hostel without even hammering upon the door.
The heat of the place hit her at once. Her eyes teared up and her nose began to run. Quickly swiping her hand across her face, she found the source of the heat: a great open hearth on the north side of the common room. Without so much as a greeting to the innkeeper, she went over to the fire, shrugged off her cape, and held out her hand to the flame.
“There are other ways to get warm, sweetheart.”
She turned abruptly and stared at the speaker, a man in his late twenties, a wide gap between his two front teeth, and laugh lines about his eyes like deep scars. At the same time she was taking in his face; he noticed the sleeve of her blouse tucked up to cover the missing arm. Something in his eyes went a bit dead.
“There is a saying in my house,” Scillia said coldly. “Do not roll up your trousers before you get to the stream.”
The man threw his head back and roared.
Scillia blushed. She had meant to wound him, to make him go away. She had no idea why he was laughing.
“I like women with fire,” he said. “As we say in my house: The sharper the thorn, the sweeter the rose.”
“And as we say …” came a dark voice behind him, “Do not speak to a man’s girlchild lest you come bearing a wedding ring.” A heavy hand on his shoulder spun the laughing man around.
The laughing man continued to smile, but he put both his hands up. “Peace, traveler, peace. I was just having a bit of fun. I did not know she was your daughter.”
“She is a child,” Marek said.
“Leave him, Marek,” Scillia ordered. “He meant me no harm. Not after he saw my arm, at any rate.” She blushed again saying it.
Marek withdrew his hand from the man’s shoulder, but only as far as the hilt of his own sword.
“I did not know her for a child,” the laughing man continued, his voice remaining calm and even. “I saw only a lovely woman who was all alone at the hour of bedding. And I am always ready to give a compliment where it is due.”
Scillia picked up her cape and flung it across both her shoulders.
“One arm or two does not change true beauty,” the laughing man added. “Surely you know that.” He sketched her a quick bow, saluted Marek, and walked to a back table, far from the hearth.
Scillia watched him go, then turned to Marek. “Why did you say I was your child?” she asked quietly.
“Would you have me tell him—and the world—that you are the queen’s daughter? That the queen’s two sons lie abed in back with but a small guard to keep them safe? We would be issuing an invitation to every clodpate and dissident to make a run at us. As your father knew. As your mother should have known.” Marek’s face was red with the effort of controlling his anger.
“The people love my father and mother,” Scillia said. “Surely we are safe in our own land.”
“The people should love them,” Marek said, “after all they have sacrificed. But it is far easier to love a hero than a king when the small harvest is in and the taxes handed over.”
Scillia thought about that for a long moment, looking down at the wooden floor strewn with old rushes. When she looked up again, her eye caught the eye of the laughing man. He winked at her and it made her blush once more.
“And why are you here, child? And come through the dark without an escort of any kind?” Marek asked.
“I could not stand another moment with all those old women. It seemed … unnatural.”
“Old?”
“Old enough,” Scillia replied. And then, to put the knife further in, she added, “Ancient even.”
“Your mother gave you leave?” he asked, as she knew he would. He was not called Jenna’s Lapdog behind his back for nothing.
“What do you think?” she asked, then added quickly. “I am starving, Marek. I came away without dinner. Is there something in this hostelry to eat?”
Marek turned and went into the kitchen and was back quickly with a bowl of stew and a mug of cider. “Come, sit and eat it by the fire. The cider is still hot, and the stew is remarkable.”
“I would eat by myself,” Scillia said in her queen’s child’s voice.
Marek nodded and took a seat at another table, but pointedly between Scillia and the laughing man.
She ate the stew slowly, savoring it. It was, in its own way, as good as any she had ever got from the castle’s cook, savory with sprigs of thyme and marjoram. The cider was a common variety, but spiced with a cinnamon stick. She could feel it go right to her head. Suddenly she was overwhelmingly sleepy.
“I will tuck in with the boys,” she said. “No need to fuss, Marek.” It stopped him from organizing another room and thereby ruining her plans. “Just show me where they are sleeping.”
He took her down the long corridor and indicated with a nod a room to the right. When she went in, closing the door carefully behind her, the familiar smells of her two brothers and their light little snores made her smile for the first time that night.
She lay down on the edge of the bed next to Corrie, wrapped herself in her cape, and was asleep almost at once. She was too tired to dream.
She awoke four hours later with a start when Corrie, in turning over, pushed her off the bed onto the floor. It was still dark out, but through the window she could see the sky was already beginning to lighten along the horizon.
“Pssssst,” she hissed at the boys. When neither one wakened, she poked them, then quickly put her hand over Jem’s mouth, knowing he’d be the first to complain. “Hush.”
“What are you doing here, Sil?” Corrie whispered. “Is something wrong with mother?”
“Nothing is wrong. But we are going off on an adventure.” She kept her hand over Jem’s mouth just in case. She could always convince Corrie to go along; Jem was another matter altogether.
“An adventure?” Corrie sat up. “What will Marek say?”
“How can it be an adventure if Marek is along?” Scillia whispered back.
Jem eeled away from her grasp. “You just mean he doesn’t know …”
“Of course he doesn’t know,” Corrie said sensibly. He was entirely on Scillia’s side already. “Where are we going?”
“That would be telling,” Scillia said.
“She doesn’t know,” Jem added acidly.
“I have spent the night exploring the forest between here and the Hame,” Scillia said. “I know enough.”
“It’s cold out,” Jem reminded them.
“When you go on an adventure,” Corrie said, “cold is part of it.” His voice was withering, and Jem gave into it at last, pulling on his clothes quickly so as to be ready first.
“The hardest part will be sneaking out of here without the guard knowing,” Scillia said.
“No, that’s the easy part.” Jem grinned and pointed dramatically to the window. “Marek complained about it but there was no better room for us. Look.”
Right outside the window was an apple tree, gnarled and ancient. The boys skinned down the tree with no trouble at all. It was a bit more difficult for Scillia, but she’d been all her life with just one arm. She managed, though not with any grace.
The boys waited at the tree foot and gave her what help they could at the end of her descent; then they held a hurried conference.
“Do we take horses?”
“They will hear.”
“Is this an adventure—or an escape?”
“Escape
from what?”
“A little bit of both?”
“It is perishing cold.”
“It is almost spring. What would you have done in winter?”
“Stayed abed.”
“Toad, toad, stuck in the mud.”
“We’re going to freeze.”
“Mother says: Dogs bark, but the caravan goes on.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Hush.”
They hushed, listened, heard nothing, and as if some kind of agreement had suddenly been reached, turned away from the stables and headed toward the trees behind the hostel. They became shadows and, once in the tree shadows, all but invisible from the inn.
The three remained quiet until the dark of the forest enclosed them. Then Jem began his litany of complaints again.
“It is cold,” he said. “And dark.”
Scillia made a noise of contempt and added, “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“Well, it is.”
“See, Jem, it will be warm and light soon,” Corrie said. “That’s why we are in the forest now. To get as far as we can from the hostel before the warmth and the light.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, you know,” Jem answered.
“That’s what makes it an adventure,” Corrie said.
“Hush,” Scillia hissed. “Do you hear something?”
But though they all strained to listen, there was nothing more to be heard.
As they groped their way deeper into the forest, the boys began to enjoy themselves. And as the forest lightened and birds began to decorate the air with song, they started their familiar bantering. But Scillia’s mood got lower and lower, for she alone suddenly realized the foolishness of her plan.
“Which is no plan at all,” she muttered to herself. She had thought that by running away, she would force her mother to understand how deeply unhappy she was. Her brothers were a kind of insurance that someone—anyone—would come looking for her. Now she was worried that something awful would happen to one of the boys and she, alone, would be to blame. If there was one thing she could not stand, it was to be found wrong in a matter concerning her brothers.
“This is silly,” she said aloud when they reached a small clearing.
“What is?” Jem asked.