The Horsemasters

by Joan Wolf

  “One of Mira’s twins,” he said softly.

  “S-sa.”

  “It will be dead by now, Nel,” he said. “It isn’t suffering any longer.”

  “Do you think an animal got it?” she sobbed.

  “Sa.”

  She continued to sob, and he continued to hold her. Finally, he said, “Come. You are soaking my shirt. You will have to re-scrape it for me, the buckskin will be so stiff.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t understand why they did it,” she said. “I will never understand why they did it. They say it is the will of the Mother, but how do they know that, Ronan? How do they know that the Mother wanted them to kill that baby?”

  “The Mistress told them so,” he said. His face was impassive.

  “Suppose she is wrong?” Nel said defiantly. “Suppose the baby was not a dark twin? Suppose the baby they kept is the dark twin, and they have killed the light one?”

  A little silence fell. Then Ronan said, “You are a dangerous thinker, Nel.”

  “So are you,” she flashed back.

  They looked at each other. After a minute, Ronan grinned. It transformed his face, that smile, transmuting all the dark arrogance into brilliant, beguiling charm. Nel smiled tremulously back.

  “I’m sorry about the baby, minnow,” he said. “It’s why I was looking for you. I knew you would take it hard.”

  It made her feel better to know he had been looking for her. “Are you sure it is dead, Ronan?”

  “I am sure.”

  She let out her breath in a long, uneven sigh.

  “You can’t rescue all the outcasts of the world like you rescued Nigak, you know,” he said.

  The wolf, who had lain down before Nel’s feet, lifted his head when he heard his name. He was a magnificent animal, silver gray except for four white legs, a white chest and white muzzle. His clear yellow-brown eyes looked from Nel to Ronan, his ears folded back in friendliness, and his tail wagged.

  “Nigak was able to eat meat when I found him,” Nel said. “I was going to look for the baby this afternoon, but then Rena said I wouldn’t be able to feed him and I knew she was right.”

  Ronan closed his hand gently around her braid. “You need to toughen up that soft heart of yours, Nel.”

  “I am tough,” Nel said indignantly.

  “About yourself you are,” he agreed. “I don’t ever remember seeing you cry for yourself.”

  “Once I did,” she said. Her voice was low. “Don’t you remember?”

  He gave a tug to the long fawn-colored braid. “Sa,” he said. “I remember.”

  Silence fell between them. Then Nel said, “I didn’t think you cared about me anymore. Ever since you moved into the men’s cave, I have scarcely seen you.”

  “Of course I care about you.” He sounded surprised. Then he quirked one slim black eyebrow. “We are bound together by blood. Don’t you remember?”

  In answer she stretched out her right arm, with the white skin of the inner side exposed. They both regarded it with interest. On the fine skin near the wrist there was a small half-moon-shaped scar, a memento of the ceremony Ronan had performed when he was ten and she was five. He stretched out his own arm, which showed a similar mark.

  Ronan laughed. “You were so brave,” he said, “letting me slice away at your wrist like that. Brave or stupid. I was never certain which.”

  “Both, I am thinking,” she retorted, and they laughed together.

  “So this is where you are, Ronan. I have been looking for you.” Nel turned to see Borba making her way toward them from the cluster of pines behind. The setting sun haloed the girl’s hair with gold, and she was smiling at Ronan.

  “Run along now, minnow,” Ronan said into her ear.

  I was here first. Nel almost said it, looked into Ronan’s face, and then did not.

  Chapter Two

  The following day, as if to atone for the lie to her stepmother, Nel brought some berries to the Old Woman.

  The day was warm, and Fali was sitting in the sun in front of her hut, scraping a deerskin and basking in the welcome summer warmth.

  “Good afternoon, my Mother,” Nel said politely. “I have brought you some of the hawthorn berries I picked.”

  The Old Woman squinted a little to see who it was. “Nel?”

  “Sa. It is Nel.”

  “Sit down, child.”

  Nel sat and looked with a child’s unwinking stare into the Old Woman’s massively wrinkled face. Fali’s white hair was scraped back into a short, thin braid, and her smile showed more gums than teeth, but her brown eyes were still bright and alert. She looked back at Nel with the fearlessness of the very old to the very young and said, “Nel, daughter of Tana, granddaughter of Meli, great-granddaughter of Elen.”

  “Sa.” Nel showed no surprise at the extensive naming. It was one of the Old Woman’s responsibilities to keep the family lines of all the tribe. “That is who I am.”

  Fali’s next words did surprise her, however. “After Morna,” the Old Woman stated, “it is you who would be our next Mistress.”

  Nel blinked. “I suppose so,” she said.

  The Old Woman sighed. “Morna looks like her grandmother,” she told Nel, “but I fear she is not like Elen in other ways.”

  Since Elen had died long before Nel was born, she had no reply to this observation.

  The Old Woman was going on softly. “It has not been the same in the tribe since Alin left.”

  This delving into the past was confusing to Nel. “Alin?” She frowned, trying to remember. “My Mother, do you mean the Chosen One who long ago deserted the tribe to go and live with a man of the Horse?”

  Fali’s eyes flashed, a strangely vivid look in that withered old face. “Alin did what she had to do.” The white head bowed. “Elen was a good Mistress,” she said. “Arika is a good Mistress. But neither of them could equal Alin.”

  Prudently, Nel did not reply.

  “You have her blood, Nel,” was Fali’s next remark. “You have the blood of Tor in your line, the blood of Alin’s father.”

  Nel nodded. She knew the name of Tor. Like all members of the tribe, she had been required to memorize her own blood lines.

  “I have been watching you,” Fali said now, and Nel’s head lifted in sudden alarm. Fali went on: “I am thinking that you may have the Mother’s healing touch.”

  “It is only that I do not like to watch anything suffer,” Nel answered softly. “I have no special touch.”

  “If you would like to learn more about the use of herbs to heal,” Fali said, “I will teach you.”

  Nel’s green eyes glowed. “I would like that very much, my Mother.”

  The Old Woman nodded. “Arika has some of the skill, but Morna shows no inclination toward the healing arts. You, Nel”—the bright brown eyes regarded her shrewdly—”you, I think, may be my heir.” Before Nel could reply, Fali’s eyes closed, and she fell into the light doze of the very old. Nel sat quietly, her thoughts going from Fali’s words to the other concerns that had brought her here.

  At last Fali’s eyes opened. She picked up one of the scrapers and began to rub the deerskin that was stretched out on the ground before the hut. Nel watched for a moment in silence, and then she spoke what was on her mind. “My Mother,” she said, “I understand that it is not permissible for hearth-cousins to marry…”

  Fali looked up from her scraping. “Of course it is not permissible,” she said. “Cousins whose mothers were sisters are too closely bound to marry.”

  “Yet it is acceptable for cousins whose parents were sister and brother to marry,” said Nel.

  Fali began to rub her scraper over the skin once more. “Sister and brother, that is different. The children of brother and sister are cross-cousins, not hearth-cousins.”

  “But what…” Nel inhaled and bravely brought it forth: “What if a girl wants to marry a boy who was hearth-cousin to her mother? Would that be permissible?”

  There was a long silence
. Fali’s arm had ceased all motion. “Ronan,” she said.

  Nel felt the heat come into her cheeks. “I was just wondering.”

  Fali’s look was piercing. “Does Ronan wish to marry you, Nel?”

  Nel’s cheeks flushed hotter. “Na,” she answered gruffly.

  “Then why ask such a question?”

  Nel did not answer.

  The Old Woman put down her scraper and folded her withered hands. To Nel’s great relief, she gazed away toward Deer Hill. “What are the family lines here?” Fali asked herself thoughtfully. “Ronan is the son of Arika. Arika and your grandmother were sisters; therefore Ronan and your mother were hearth-cousins.”

  “Sa,” Nel said a little breathlessly. “So doesn’t that make Ronan and me cross-cousins?”

  Fali removed her gaze from the looming hill and turned to Nel. “I am thinking, Nel, that it would not be wise of you to set your mind on Ronan,” she said slowly.

  “Why is that, my Mother?”

  “It would be dangerous.” Fali frowned, making even more wrinkles in her face. She repeated, her voice stronger, “Do not set your mind on Ronan.”

  “The blood ties are too close?”

  Fali shook her head. “It is not the blood ties.”

  “Then I do not understand you, my Mother,” Nel said patiently. “If it is not the Wood ties, then what is dangerous?”

  “You and Ronan together—that is dangerous.” Fali reached out and took Nel’s chin in her hand. The Old Woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. “This is your idea, Nel? Ronan has not mentioned marriage to you?”

  Nel shook her head, to indicate a negative reply and to free her chin from that grip. “But I still do not understand you,” she cried, retreating beyond Fali’s grasp. “If our marriage would break no taboo, then why is it dangerous?” Her voice echoed with frustration and bewilderment. “What have we done?”

  “It is not what you have done,” said the Old Woman somberly. “It is what you are.”

  Then as Nel sat, mute and defiant, the Old Woman explained. “Your grandmother was Arika’s elder sister, was Mistress before her. You are the next in line after Morna. Arika will never let you marry Ronan, Nel. Put it out of your mind, my child.”

  Nel bowed her head, to hide the rebellion in her eyes.

  * * * *

  During the warm weather the hunters of the tribe moved to their summer camp, which lay in the high country to the south and east of their permanent home. This was a move that was necessitated by the migration of the herds, which ascended during the summer into the pastures of the higher country to feed on the rich, snow-fed grass that could be found there.

  The Red Deer summer camp lay at the apex of an elongated triangular basin at the point where the Narrow River suddenly entered a narrow and winding gorge. The basin was bound on all sides by steep slopes formed by the confluence of several small valleys. All of these valleys were cul-de-sacs except the one that led up into the high pass which opened into the country of the Tribe of the Buffalo.

  The two large caves which formed the summer home of the Tribe of the Red Deer overlooked the river, and the men of the tribe had also pitched hide tents to extend the amount of shelter.

  Life was easy in summer camp. The very old and the very young had been left behind at the Greatfish River; only the initiated males and the women who were not encumbered with small children moved to summer camp. The purpose of the move was to hunt the reindeer and the red deer in order to feed not only themselves but also those who had been left at home. Hunting was not difficult, however, and the living was free and pleasant.

  It was Ronan’s first season in summer camp, and he found it fine. By day he and his agemates would roam the mountains, hunting in total freedom, wrestling with each other in the warm sunlight, singing the tribe’s hunting songs, holding spear-throwing contests when there was no animal within their weapon’s reach.

  The nights were for girls. Red Deer girls, with sweet seductive smiles and soft willing bodies.

  Ronan had heard from his fellows that in the other Kindred tribes, which followed the male god of the Sky, the unmarried women did not have the same freedom as did the girls of the Red Deer. That was certainly one thing about the Way of Sky God with which Ronan did not agree.

  The boy is looking happy, Neihle thought when he came up to the initiates’ cookfire one evening to find Ronan eating a supper of stewed deer meat in the company of his agemates. Ronan respectfully rose to his feet when he saw his uncle, and offered him some food.

  “Na, I have eaten,” the man replied. He looked into the dark eyes of his nephew and saw with some surprise that they were on a slightly higher level than his own. “You have grown two fingers since your initiation,” Neihle said. “Something must be agreeing with you.”

  Ronan grinned.

  “Borba is agreeing with him,” Tyr, one of the boys at the cookfire, said. “And Iva and Tosa and Lula and…”

  “That is enough,” Ronan said, but a faint smile still lingered on his lips.

  “We all have to wait until Ronan makes his choice,” another boy complained humorously to Neihle. “The girls will not go with us until he has chosen. Even the older initiates have to wait.”

  “I am thinking they don’t like that,” Neihle said, lifting his brows in inquiry.

  “They wouldn’t put up with it from anyone else,” Tyr said matter-of-factly. “For some reason, however, they put up with it from Ronan.”

  “The reason is perfectly simple,” Adun put in. “Ronan can outwrestle and outfight every one of them.”

  “A potent reason indeed,” Neihle murmured. Then he asked his nephew, “Would you like to come walking with me?”

  “Of course.” Ronan lifted his spear from the stack piled beside the fire and followed Neihle to the path along the river.

  “It is beginning to grow cold in the evenings,” Ronan remarked, courteously waiting for the older man to broach his reason for seeking Ronan out. “The summer weather is ending.”

  “Sa,” Neihle agreed. He drew a deep breath, not yet ready to broach a topic of whose reception he was unsure. He said instead, “You like living in the men’s cave, I think.”

  Ronan blew out through his nose. “Sa,” he answered shortly.

  Of course he likes living in the men’s cave, Neihle thought to himself. After years of living with that shrew of a stepmother, the men’s cave must seem like paradise.

  In the Tribe of the Red Deer, as in all matrilineal societies, a boy’s closest male relative was not his father but his mother’s brother. Even had Ronan’s father not died, Neihle would have had responsibilities toward Ronan, They were responsibilities he always felt guilty he had not sufficiently fulfilled.

  Neihle looked down at the ground, stabbing his spear into the dirt as he walked. “Ronan,” he said, his voice a little muffled, “I hope you know that if it had been in my power, I would have taken you to live in my own hut. But my wife had so many of our own children to see to… She could not cope with my sister’s child as well.” Unspoken, although well-understood between the two of them, was the fact that Arika would have opposed such an arrangement, and it was his sister’s opposition more than his wife’s that had weighed with Neihle.

  Ronan did not answer right away, and after a moment Neihle turned to look at him. The boy’s face was unreadable. Neihle thought painfully that Ronan had learned at much too early an age how to keep his feelings from his face.

  “I know that,” Ronan said finally. He shifted his spear from his right hand to his left. “You have always done your best for me, Uncle. Be sure I know that.”

  His best had not been good enough, Neihle thought now, as he walked through the cool evening at the side of his tall young nephew. Ronan’s father had died when the boy was but six winters old, leaving him in the hut of a resentful stepmother. Then Orenda had remarried, and more children had come along. Neither she nor her husband had wanted Ronan. They had kept him only at the Mistress’s comman
d.

  The Mistress, Neihle thought. Arika. In most things, Neihle found his sister to be both just and wise, but he had never understood her in the matter of Ronan.

  Arika had lain with Neihle’s heart-friend, Iun, at Spring Fires, and had borne Ronan, her first, long-awaited child. But a boy was of no use to the Mistress of the Tribe of the Red Deer, and Arika had not even suckled him, had immediately given him over to Iun’s wife, who also had a child at the breast. Orenda’s child had died shortly thereafter, and she had blamed Ronan for taking too much of her milk. The boy had never known a happy moment under Orenda’s roof.

  Arika knew that, yet she had commanded Orenda to keep the boy and made it clear that Neihle was to leave him under his stepmother’s care. Neihle had never understood why, until this summer.

  He heard Ronan saying, “I bear no ill will toward you, Uncle.” There was a faintly sinister emphasis upon that “you,” and a shiver ran up and down Neihle’s spine.

  He sought to change the subject. “Erek brought back word from home that at the full of the moon, Morna is to be initiated.”

  The men looked at each other. It was always an important moment in the world of the Red Deer when a girl first showed the moon blood that would guarantee the future life of the tribe. When that girl was the future Mistress, the occasion was one for great rejoicing. Yet neither man looked at all elated.

  “She has become a woman, then,” Ronan said, his voice curiously flat.

  “Sa. She has become a woman.”

  “If Morna will ever be a woman.”

  Neihle pulled his upper lip. “She is…thoughtless…sometimes, but she will grow up. Now that her moon blood is flowing, she will grow up.”

  Ronan snorted. “Nel has more sense in the nail of her little finger than Morna has in her whole head.”

  “Do not say that to anyone besides me!” Neihle said warningly. “If such words should come to the Mistress’s ears…”