There were weapons available to the north, but a hostile tribe barred that direction. So Sam was following the trail to the southeast, open because hardly anyone cared to brave its rigors. He had been here once before, years ago, so knew the general route. But not well. He would have been better off in the company of a native of this region.
However, if this mission were successful, the women would have much less to fear from roving men. For Sam was in quest of the great new equalizer, the weapon that could make a woman as deadly as a man. The copper dagger. So sharp that even the slight muscle of a woman could make it lethal. So small it could be concealed on her body and forgotten until needed. With such knives, Flo and Jes and Lin and Wona would be safe.
Sam did not like to admit it, but this high region was becoming less familiar by the hour. He feared he had lost the way, and would not find the village he sought. But there was nothing to do but plow on.
He crested the pass and gained speed as he descended. There was a settlement of the folk who used the odd wide-mouthed clay pots. It was likely to be somewhere in this vicinity; all he had to do was find it. It was a long trek to reach it, but surely worthwhile this time.
Then he spied sheep. That meant there was a shepherd near. And if there was one person who knew an area well, it was that area’s shepherd. So Sam put his hands to his mouth and called: “HALLOOOO!”
This spooked a few sheep, but Sam remained still and in plain view. He wanted the shepherd to locate him, and to see that he meant no harm to the flock. So he raised his hands in a gesture of harmlessness which was more symbolic than real. Sam could take care of himself, and would fight if he had to. But he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
Soon a man appeared. He was of average size, but had a competent bow. That would be the shepherd, and he could have put an arrow into Sam if he wanted to. And perhaps would have, had Sam not made a point of desiring peace. Because sometimes raiders stole sheep, and sheep were valuable.
“Who?” the man called, in the mountain dialect. Sam had picked it up during his prior travels; he couldn’t speak it well, but could understand it well enough.
“Sam, of the northeast,” he called back. “Coming in peace to trade cloth for copper. But I have lost my way, and need guidance to recover the trail.”
The shepherd came closer. His bow was slung across his back, but he could reach it rapidly. Actually Sam could reach his weapon rapidly too, but he kept his hands raised inoffensively. “You missed it by one peak. Go west and recover it.”
“I shall, with thanks,” Sam said, and turned to face west. But the mountain slope was plainly impassable in that direction. “Perhaps farther down.”
“Easier to pass through my village,” the shepherd said, smiling.
Sam returned the smile. “Does your village have copper for trade for cloth?” Sam indicated the heavy burden of cloth bound to his back.
“Yes.”
“Then it seems I am not lost after all. I will trade at your village. I thank you again.”
The shepherd pondered a moment, then made a significant offer. “I will return there tomorrow. You may travel with me, if you care to help herd sheep.”
“It is an honorable profession,” Sam said. “I am no expert at it, but I can profit well from instruction.” He was saying that he would accept directions from the shepherd without taking offense.
“Then come share my fire this night, and we shall be on our way tomorrow.”
“Gladly,” Sam agreed. He had half hoped for something like this, but it was not a thing that could be asked for.
“Follow me.” The shepherd turned his back and walked slowly east. This was another significant gesture: no one turned his back on an enemy. But Sam knew that the man was well aware of Sam’s position and movement; shepherds were said to have eyes on their backs.
So Sam waited a moment, then stepped forward, matching the pace. In a moment the shepherd increased it, and they made good progress.
Only now did the shepherd’s dog appear, answering a signal from his master. Sam knew that the dog would have been on him the moment he made a hostile move toward the shepherd. The fact that he had neither seen the dog nor heard him before indicated how well the animal was trained.
It turned out that there was a small cave under a ledge of the mountain. No track led to it, and Sam would never have noticed it, had he passed by it alone. That was no accident, he realized; it was a hiding place as well as a shelter. The shepherd probably had a number of such refuges spread across his region, so that wherever the sheep went, he had a safe retreat.
The dog did not enter the cave. He ranged away, watching the sheep. The connections between man and dog were invisible to others, but Sam knew the animal obeyed his master implicitly.
Inside was a small cache of supplies, including some dried meat, tinder, and wood. The shepherd took his fire cup and soon blew up a small, almost smokeless fire.
“This is unexpected luxury,” Sam said, removing his burden and lying down. He unstrapped the sheath for his stone dagger and set the weapon on top of the bound cloth. He was thus disarming himself, signaling his lack of hostile intent. Such continuing cues were important.
In due course the shepherd handed him a section of the heated meat. Sam bit avidly into it. It was tough but good. And this was the most important signal of all: no man fought with the one he ate with.
Then they talked. “I am Otzi,” the shepherd said.
“I am Sam,” Sam repeated. But now the introduction was formal. Now they knew each other.
Periodically they went out to check on the sheep, but the dog had things under control. Sam knew that the animal would give notice the moment there was a problem. The sheep were pretty well settled for the night, near a mountain streamlet. Sam and Otzi drank there too, before returning to the cave.
As they settled for the night, they talked, for shepherding was a lonely trade, and so was traveling. Sam told of his tribe, and the manner his family group had formed when it had gotten isolated in a bad storm; times had been rough at first, when his sister had been raped and had to leave her baby in the forest because she could not support it.
But later she had married, and Sam had married, and they both had children they could support, and things were better now.
“Marriage,” Otzi said thoughtfully. “I had a good wife, but I lost her to the fever. Now my daughter runs our house in the village, for I am gone for months with the flock.”
“What will you do when she marries?” Sam asked sociably.
Otzi shook his head. “I fear Snow will not marry. She’s a good girl with a fine healthy body, smart and competent and good-natured, but her face is not pretty.”
Sam was sympathetic. “You have described my sister Jes. She’s as much of a woman as any man could want, except that she is tall, lanky, and homely of face, so no man wants her.” He shrugged. “Beauty isn’t everything.”
“That’s true. But it takes a man time to learn that. When I was young I sought beauty, but few wished to be alone while I was with the flock. Snow is like her mother, and once I knew her mother, I did love her.”
Sam pondered for some time before answering. He realized that he would probably never see Otzi again, after he left this region, so it was probably safe to divulge a confidence. “My wife is beautiful like none other. Yet if I had it to do over, I think I would seek a lesser woman.”
“You have a truly beautiful wife, and you crave less?”
“She is not as lovely in her nature as in her form,” Sam explained.
Otzi laughed, not unkindly. “I have seen it elsewhere. We men are fools about form and nature.”
“We men are fools,” Sam agreed ruefully. “Yet I can’t tell her no on anything.”
“That’s the way it is, with beauty,” Otzi agreed.
In the morning they herded the sheep down the mountain. There were a few ornery goats that gave the dog some trouble; Sam appreciated the magnitude of the job the shepherd had
. But Otzi knew the terrain as well as only a shepherd could, and he knew the animals, and he maneuvered them efficiently in the right direction. Sam helped mainly by going to certain wrong paths Otzi directed him to, and waving his arms to dissuade the goats. When the goats went the right way, the sheep followed. Since there were three directions they could go—right, left, and forward—Sam wondered how Otzi and the dog ordinarily managed. He realized that probably the village sent up another man for this drive. Sam’s presence enabled Otzi to handle the matter without waiting for the arrival of help.
The herding was arduous, but they couldn’t stop, because there was no water for the sheep along the way. Otzi seemed indefatigable, and Sam held up, but he felt the strain. He had the muscle to accomplish heavy lifting or fighting, and the stamina to walk long distances, but this constant running from place to place, with his heavy load of cloths, was wearing.
By evening the outlying fields of the village appeared, to Sam’s relief. The villagers came out to meet the flock. “You’re early!” one cried.
“The sheep were ready, the weather was right, and I had help,” Otzi explained, gesturing toward Sam.
“Good enough! We’ll start the slaughter tomorrow.”
Otzi, relieved of his job, guided Sam to his house in the village.
The village itself was formidably situated. It covered a substantial knoll, with a ring of sharpened stakes set around the base. There were piles of rocks inside, that could be thrown, and a few boulders that could be rolled down the steep slope if an enemy breached the palisades. Right now, however, there were no guards; everyone was busy with the rigors of the harvest and preparations for the slaughter. No guards? Sam frowned, disliking this carelessness, but not wishing to criticize the host village. Probably there were lookouts alert to spot any hostile intrusion long before it reached the village.
A woman came out to greet Otzi with a hug. She was much younger, close to Sam’s own age, with strikingly light-colored long tresses, in contrast to the man’s much shorter dark brown hair. She wore a necklace of amber beads. That meant she was unmarried, probably his daughter Snow. She would cut her hair shorter when she married, giving its fairness to her husband along with the beads. She was well shaped, and would have been pretty except for a somewhat coarse face.
Then Otzi introduced her to Sam, confirming the obvious. Snow smiled, but there was no denying that she was far from pretty despite having a very nice body. She really was not like Jes; she was better in the torso and worse in the face. If only that lustrous hair could cover her face!
She was apt in other womanly arts, though. They ate very well, and Sam was provided with a fine bed of straw to sleep on. Still, when he slept, he dreamed of Wona, the way she had been at first, avid for his embrace. The way she was only in his dreams, recently. He wasn’t sure why she had changed, but suspected that she blamed him for giving her a girl baby.
Next day Otzi was busy helping with the threshing. Snow took Sam to the central house and departed, for she had work of her own to do. There were their wares, spread out on a table: bows, arrows, and what he wanted—several fine copper-bladed daggers. He had seen these elsewhere, and desired them, but had not had enough cloth to trade for them. Farther along was one of the necklaces of fine amber beads, that any woman would like, even if they weren’t a signal of availability. But he was here for something more useful.
Sam unloaded his bundle and set his cloth down on the clear end of the table, and stepped back, inviting them to inspect it. He knew the workmanship was good; no one could excel Flo at weaving fancy material. She had worked for many months on this, helped by the other women of the family.
A woman came up and checked the cloth with practiced eye and fingers. She glanced at him and nodded, recognizing the quality of the handiwork.
“There is a problem,” she said. After his night with Otzi and Snow, Sam was adjusting to the dialect, and knew he could use it well enough to get by.
“This is good cloth,” Sam protested. “My sister Flo wove it, and she’s the best—”
“No, the cloth is good. It’s that we can’t trade now. Crockson handles it, and he’s busy with the harvest.”
The harvest. Sam realized what that meant. Many villages had a policy of postponing all business during harvest time, because all their hands were needed. He should have realized that when he came down with the flock, he would by definition be there for the harvest.
“When will Crockson trade?”
“On our festival day, after the harvest is secure.”
That did not mean a day, it meant a week, because they had to get it done during fair weather, lest all be spoiled. But he was stuck for it.
“The cloth is satisfactory?”
“Yes, of course. But I lack the authority—I merely care for the goods, while the able-bodied work.” Sam noticed her hunch, realizing that she was not able-bodied; otherwise she would be out in the field too.
Sam sighed inwardly. “Then I will have to wait upon that day. But may I examine the wares now?”
“Certainly, if you wish.”
The woman stepped back. He moved down to the daggers. He picked up the best one and touched its keen edges to his finger. He hefted it, feeling the balance. The handle was of wood, with the copper blade wedged into a split at the end, and bound in place by fine cord. It came with a wooden sheath, superior to the ordinary sheaths of woven grass, with leather thongs attached to tie it in place. A very nice instrument.
He smiled and set it down before him. He picked up the second one. This, too, was nicely made, slightly lighter but no less sharp. He set it beside the first.
He reached for the third, but the woman grunted negatively. “Crockson will not give three,” she said.
Sam nodded. The woman might lack authority, but she knew what was what. They would give him two for his cloth, but not three. He considered; perhaps he could bargain. But he wasn’t sure, because they were very nice daggers, and surely worth the price.
“Suppose I stay here and help with the harvest?” he inquired.
The woman studied his heft and muscle. “Then I think Crockson would agree to the third knife.”
Sam nodded. The deal had in effect been made. “I shall see you again on the festival day,” he said, rebundling his cloth and heaving it to his shoulder. She nodded in return.
The following days were busy indeed, as the work of the harvest proceeded. Sam stayed with Otzi and Snow, after making an informal oath of brotherhood to the girl so that it would be acceptable for him to remain with them more than a night. The more he knew of the father and daughter, the better he liked them. Otzi was a competent, hardworking herder and hunter, and Snow was the same in woman’s work. It was too bad she was having such difficulty finding a husband. On occasion she removed her clothing so as to wash—something that women thought necessary—and though he studiously ignored her at such times as a matter of brotherly protocol, he was aware of her healthy body. She had breasts and thighs that could certainly put a man into rapture, if she chose. And weirdly lovely hair. Did a face matter so much?
At last the harvest and slaughter were done, except for a few loose ends. Some of the goats had strayed, and now they had to be rounded up and brought in for the slaughter. Sam went afield with Otzi and Snow, for it would take all three of them to catch the frisky animals. But it would be a relatively easy day. Tomorrow would be the festival.
“FU be glad to make my trade and be on my way home,” Sam said. “But it has been nice enough with the two of you.”
Snow laughed. She did that often, pleasantly. “You know that Crockson wanted to have you stay this week, because of your strength for the heavy work?”
“I suspected,” Sam said. “But it was good work, and I am promised an extra knife.”
“We shall see that that promise is honored,” Otzi said.
“I am glad you stayed,” Snow said. “You are a good man.”
Sam, embarrassed by the compliment, did not
reply. They continued to the pasture where the goats had strayed.
They went after the goats, catching each one and tying it temporarily while they went after the next. Snow was good at it, for a woman; she seemed to like being out in the field for a change. She sweated as she got hot. Sam liked that; Wona was careful never to exert herself enough to sweat. Not even when having sex on a hot night. Not that she bothered, any more.
Sam spied another goat, and ran to head it off. He needed to get ahead of it and turn it back toward the others. But it was a fleet one, and it surprised him by running right down the path toward the village. By the time he caught up with it, they were almost in sight of the houses. He trapped it in a narrow spot, and managed to lay his hands on it so it couldn’t get away. It seemed a waste to haul it all the way back to the pasture; he could take it the shorter distance in to the main village pen.
So he looped his rope around its neck and hauled it along. But as he approached the village, he heard something. So did the goat; its ears perked up, and it snorted.
The noise sounded like human screaming.
Sam’s battle reflexes cut in. Maybe it was just a goat being slaughtered; they could scream like children when hurt. But maybe it wasn’t. So he hauled the goat off the path, and approached the village under the cover of rocks and brush. He had gotten to know the area in the past few days, and hiding came naturally. The goat, nervous, was silent.
Soon Sam got a good look at the village mound. There was frenzied activity there. For a moment Sam couldn’t grasp it. Then he saw one of the village children being carried to the edge by a strange man. The man threw the child to the ground, drew his knife, and stabbed the child in the chest. The child screamed once more, and died. The man turned and went after another child, much in the manner Sam had been going after goats.
Sam was chilled. This was an enemy raid! The village had been taken unaware, and the people were being slaughtered. There would be no mercy; only babies under a year old would be taken, because they could be adopted into the enemy tribe. All others would die.
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